


Soli Insieme

by sfiddy



Series: Balcony Duet verse [4]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Balcony Duet, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Modern AU, Quarantine, Romance, covid au, it's really sweet because we all need that right now, look at my idiots, people pulling together to make good things happen, this is not grim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfiddy/pseuds/sfiddy
Summary: “You’re insane,” Erik murmured as he took her hand and kissed her fingers.“Says the man who bought a whole theater,” Christine quipped.  “What I’m saying is, we all cope in our own way.  Why do you think I’m sewing masks?”Erik rolled onto his back with a soft grunt.  “You have unaccountable fixations.”
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: Balcony Duet verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1531820
Comments: 83
Kudos: 91





	1. The Unthinkable

**Author's Note:**

> Erik despairs when the world turns itself upside down. Christine manages to find purpose, but what does a man with a theater do with no audience?

Erik was not, by anyone’s measure, an extrovert. Nature and Nurture had combined forces and produced a man with little taste for the world around him. That the world found him similarly unpalatable only confirmed that Fortune had got the last word.

This arrangement had worked well enough right until he’d got himself tangled up with someone with absolutely no sense whatsoever. Then he fell in love with her.

It was perfect. Perfectly ludicrous, but then so was he. So was his theater. And his troupe. And the gentrifying heap of a main street he haunted from the cafes, craft cocktail bars, and sandwich shops with odd bread and extravagant charcuterie. There was an artisan ice creamery named ‘Lick’ and its menu board boasted flavors like _beet and fresh mint_ and _goat cheese and honey_. 

Silly. Ridiculous. And, right now, utterly and painfully silent.

He’d been to the theater only a handful of times since the world had turned inside out. The first time, he broke the news to everyone on the day the city decided to close him down. He’d wanted to be firm, to be strong and reassuring as only a madman who’d flung financial sense aside and bought himself a theater could. So, with Christine at his side and his mask in place, he started to deliver the speech he’d prepared.

His throat had closed on the second sentence and he started leaking from under the mask. The whole lot of them lost it after that, from the sweet little intern who could chill your blood with her stage cackle to the big burly stage hand. He loved tabletop games and sometimes painted figures in the break room. 

Christine had rallied and delivered the speech that he couldn’t. Then they got to work. There had been a slim twenty-two hours before they were to lock the doors and not come back until breathing was no longer hazardous. 

As they’d worked, the troupe texted, tweeted, called and emailed. Equipment was stowed and locked away while families were alerted, landlords were contacted, and bills negotiated. Costumes were bagged, tagged, and sealed as grocery orders were made, gigs found and others lost.

It was remarkable how fast time and moved, then simply stopped.

When he’d bought the theater, she was a mess. Bats and pigeons had the high ground and a few rats nested in the dark corners below. The electricity had worked provided you didn’t ask too many questions and the stage was… there.

Erik paused and pulled out his keys. As much as he wanted to fling open the front doors to air out the stale stillness, he instead shuffled around the empty dumpster and set his sights on the side door. It was new, replaced in the big restoration project, and the sturdy metal affair opened easily without the need of the jiggle-tug. 

Sentiment and tragedy make odd companions.

Erik walked a familiar path from the side door through the back stage. He used to check for water leaks, loose panels or fixtures, and damaged ducts. Now he checked that no one had entered without authorization and that nothing in the breakroom fridge would smell in a week. Finding nothing but salad dressing and a lonely Red Bull, he moved on.

One bottle of cheap champagne was gone from the case in the cabinet, and Erik hoped whoever took it had a better evening because of it. He was hardly going to begrudge someone a seven-dollar vacation. With that thought in mind, he peeled a bottle from the pack and tucked it into his bag. 

Erik left the breakroom and headed to his office and unlocked the door. He’d thought being forced away from the theater would be an opportunity to start adapting new material. In the first days he’d dragged a stack of materials from his office home and ordered eight scripts to consider. They’d arrived a week ago, and he still hadn’t opened the box.

All was well in his office and the control booth, so he locked up and headed to the orchestra pit. By the way of the ghost lights, he made his way to the panels there and checked that everything was secure. It was. Of course it was. Erik turned up the house lights and spun slowly, getting a good look around, recalling crowds, music, laughter, and the way a spotlight could light up your whole life.

His gaze fell upon the big Steinway. Though the cover was in place, the dark wood legs gleamed under the soft house lights.

Erik turned them off and left.

…

The city was requiring masks. Erik laughed mirthlessly at the irony of it all.

“Christine, I’ve worn masks my entire life.”

“Well, according to the city, you’re covering the wrong part.” She held up her freshly stitched and ironed fabric. “See? Mouth and nose.”

“I’m not going to dignify that.”

“You will if you want to go out.” She pulled out a pile of fabrics and held up a few. “What do you say, dark gray? Maybe navy? I’m not seeing you as a big pattern guy, but maybe this abstract…”

He sighed. “Black. Black is fine.” He almost regretted her working with the costumes so much. She’d got pretty handy with textiles and the stack of masks on the sofa testified her skill.

She sketched thoughtfully. “I should probably try to integrate it to your mask a bit. I’ll leave the rest at the theater next time I go and everyone can just take one.”

Erik leaned back on the sofa and propped a leg on the piano bench. Her desk was now a sewing station and a pile of fabrics lifted from the theater sat at one side. A production line of pieces trailed along the floor. 

He still hadn’t opened the script box. An unwelcome wave of self awareness threatened to drag him down and, to cope, he hauled himself up and wordlessly crawled into bed before the sun went down.

Dreams were nothings. A nightmare might have been welcome because it would have been something, but like the _thing_ out there, it was silent, invisible… everything and nothing-- a giant uncertain gray threatening everything and there was nothing to do about it but sit and hope the nothing passed by sooner rather than later.

It was nearly dark when his eyes fell open. Moments later, a wedge of light cut into the room and Christine walked in and sat next to him on the bed.

“Hi sweetheart,” she said and tucked back a few strands of hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Like an asshole,” he said flatly. “I’m sorry I’m not very helpful. I just… don’t know what to do.”

Christine curled up next to him. “You know, after my divorce I probably worked seventy hours a week. I took cooking classes, did yoga, designed a few fabric patterns, and then drove myself to a new city for a completely fresh start with a few contracts, my computer, and a suitcase.”

“You’re insane,” Erik murmured as he took her hand and kissed her fingers.

“Says the man who bought a whole theater,” she quipped. “What I’m saying is, we all cope in our own way. Why do you think I’m sewing masks?”

Erik rolled onto his back with a soft grunt. “You have unaccountable fixations.”

She may have sprained an eyeball rolling them. “I have to stay busy. No matter what, if I slow down, then I bog down. I’m actively participating in the things around me and making some kind of dent in the big pile of shit we’re all in.” Christine sat up and crossed her legs. “You, on the other hand, can’t do just _anything_.”

“What do you mean?”

She grinned and hopped off the bed. “You’re going to have to figure that out. C’mon, I made dinner. You’re going to love what I did with the leftover meatloaf and some canned tomatoes.”

…

A splash of the cheap champagne was sacrificed to Christine’s bolognaise, and though Erik had never eaten homemade pasta before he was now convinced that she had finally cracked the code on how to put a few pounds on him. He’d need a mask with a softer cheekbone. 

The idea made him wince. There was a fine line between mad artist and clown, and it started with contour.

With a little twinkle in her eye, Christine shooed him out of the kitchen and topped off his glass with a bit more bubbly. Erik paced the apartment, sipping thoughtfully as he looked at her assembly line of calicoes, batiks, and scraps from the costume room. Her eye for design was evident, and he liked that her skill had a home even in this. 

The charming sounds of pots and pans clattering were smoothed out by humming. Erik looked back and saw Christine sway in time to her own music, washing dishes to the rhythm of her own playlist. A broken phrase here and there, strung on an anchorless melody.

It was pretty, and he loved to hear her voice. 

The glass rang delicately as he set it on his piano. It had been nearly three whole weeks, and his hands felt sluggish, but surely… 

The fall board slid back and the keys winked up like friends. As though he were wearing a coat and tails and not flannel pants, Erik sat at the bench and started small. A slow nocturne, then something quicker. Songs with embedded scales to disguise the warm up. He tripped on a key, his fingertips catching here and there as they recalled themselves, working out their own demons. Blood pulsed, and fire followed. 

He closed his eyes and forced himself to remember-- to feel the music rather than play it. One does not _play_ music but delivers it, creating, acting as the conduit to songs as old as man or released into the ether just yesterday. Era was irrelevant, the act was the same.

As he finished, he opened his eyes while the last notes quieted. Christine stood by the piano, smiling, still holding the dishrag. She came and kissed his cheek. 

“There he is,” she whispered, then drained his champagne.

Erik felt the warmth in his face. He stretched out his fingers and cracked his neck with a grin. “Are you warmed up?”

... 

As the sun went down, Christine opened the balcony doors and Erik turned on the lights. It was his favorite time of the year, when cool night air mixes with the leftover warmth of day. The tree in the courtyard below was still thinly leafed, surrounded by floating lights looped low on bare branches. Christine turned off the kitchen light, leaving the soft glow from the balcony and and the lamp from her desk to illuminate the keys; they leapt and twinkled like the lights in the courtyard.

The scattered balconies were uniformly dark and desolate. A number of residents had left to return home or pool resources, furloughed or otherwise unessential. The hardy souls that remained were still fractured. Neighbors that had forgotten what the word meant.

Erik opened the lid on the piano with a tentative hand and kissed Christine. It had been too long-- the world, the theater, the everything everywhere was on fire but they weren’t. Too long without reminding her that of all the things that drummed away in his distracted goldfish brain, she was his absolute favorite.

She smiled at him from the piano and his ears went hot.

“I love you too, you idiot. Now let’s make noise.”

With a last glance out the window at the dark square, Erik breathed music into the night. Christine gave it poetry, giving _Berkeley Square_ the sweetest treatment he’d ever heard. On the second time around, she turned suddenly.

A balcony across the square had lit up. Then another. She sang Dorothy Fields, and during Gershwin, the balconies around the square brightened and spilled dark silhouettes onto the ledges. When they finished the third song, a smattering of applause punctuated by a rowdy whistle cut the night chill, so they opened their last red and drank straight from the bottle before breaking into _Alone Together_ in the hope that a few listeners knew that the song came before the slogan.

Weeks of little practice left them breathless. Or maybe it was the light from the balconies casting stars in their eyes. Whichever it was, Erik lunged from the bench, hungry and hot for the first time in weeks. Christine crashed into him, dragging his shirt up and pulling him to the hallway.

Some things in life were still luminous, even if the world was trying very hard to snuff them out. He warmed his hands with her softness and she eased his aching shoulders with kisses.

“You’re tight,” Christine remarked as she thumbed his shoulder blades. “Too much news.”

He whimpered into her mouth as she pushed him over to his back. Her lips pinned him down with a feather’s touch and he hoped _very much_ that everyone in the apartment complex was having as good a night. When her lips slid past his chest he shuddered, and her light giggle set his insides flipping. Twitches followed her touch as she took the flannel pants and tossed them in the general direction of the basket.

When her fingertips traced the quivers in the hollows by his hipbones, words failed in favor of ostentatious begging. He stopped short of vulgarity; that was petty.

He may, however, have been a bit _tawdry_ when she started climbing back up.


	2. Putter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smiled the smile that knows both how you like being licked *and* how stupid you are. “I overwork myself to cope. You create.” Then she pushed a mask into his hands. “Go figure out what that means.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope no one thought this was a one-shot...

Erik woke from the best night of sleep in weeks with a decided crick in his back and pillow marks on his face. They were not an improvement, but the softening of the shadows under his eyes was. He washed up and followed the smell of toast and browned butter.

“Good morning.” Christine set down her coffee and sprinkled cheese into an omelette. “Here, last of the eggs, and we’ve got bread for a few days.” She fired up her big drafting computer and set down forks. “I’m making a list while I work on a project today, so just add things as you think of them.”

They didn’t bother with a second plate to share the omelette. Erik did pour his own coffee. His taste in coffee predated Christine even if he appreciated her cooking, though he was disconcerted to find that they only had enough cream for a day or two. Despite the annoyance, he found his thoughts drawn to the evening before and he cupped his hands around his coffee as he paced.

In a slim few weeks, he’d let his heart withdraw and his hands grow stiff. What else did he risk by falling apart and withdrawing from his life? Worse, he’d dragged Christine into it with him. Well, he’d tried to at least. 

He absently tapped a few keys into bird trills. 

There were at least another dozen masks on the arm of the couch. She’d found purpose even in this mess. The least he could do was to find one for himself.

_Maestro, entertain yourself._

The trills cut out with a squawk. 

Christine took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Hey, no one is scheduled to go to the theater today. Why don’t you go... putter?”

“Trying to get rid of me?” he teased, and drank down the last of his coffee.

She smiled the smile that knows both how you like being licked _and_ how stupid you are. “I overwork myself to cope. You create.” Then she pushed a mask into his hands. “Go figure out what that means.”

…

Her homemade mask was fitted… well, not comfortably but securely over his, and looped behind his ears. Ignorable, as long as he didn’t breathe too hard. He still whipped it off once inside the theater.

Once it was off and hung up, Erik walked every inch of the theater. This time, he let the memories in so they washed over him, good and bad. The ridiculous day he closed on the place and took possession of an outdated eighty year-old status symbol in the hopes that it was a better bet than himself. The first time he played the piano. The glorious day he opened his first show with nothing but public domain and flaky set pieces. The first time he broke even on a show.

The first bankruptcy. The second mortgage. The new lighting and sound system, and the first concert and regular gigs. The late nights with rotten wood and bad plumbing, the first real employee and the first college kid looking for experience. The firsts that turned into a second, then third, and finally a full sized crew and tech department. 

He could barely recall the details by this time, he’d been so busy. But the shows had been wild and numerous, and sometimes even good. Even when they weren’t, they were something and that was more than they had now.

He was meandering again, poking his head in here and there to just _look_ , when an impulse thrummed in him and he found his way to the booth. He stored recordings of everything here, from the last Torch Hour to the Nutcrackers and the university quartet’s annual Chopin concert. When he bought the place there was a dead digital camera mounted to a tripod with duct tape and three enormous storage crates full of VCR tapes and film cans. By the third year he had full recording capabilities, and minute improvements the whole way. Everything was stored on hard drives now.

The rest lived in a perpetual ‘to do’ limbo located in the storage lockers under the stage.

Erik was about to start shoving hard drives into his bag when he stopped himself. This was why he had an AV guy, right? He pulled out his phone and shot off texts to the AV guy, the stage manager, and the clever intern who seemed to know things, then he pulled out a notebook to think.

He had a page full of bullet points when the texts started returning.

The AV guy could come in and load everything to a cloud. The stage manager was annoyed he hadn’t done it already.

The nineteen year old intern had uploaded last year’s recordings three months ago.

Not wanting to have _that_ conversation at the moment, Erik dumped them into a group chat and hit mute. He’d check back later to see what developed. In the meantime, he fired up his computer and started crunching numbers.

It was nearly six in the evening when he closed up his notes and made sure his spreadsheets, calendars, and links were saved to his cloud, then checked that he could access them from his phone.

He had a text from Christine.

_Here’s what I have on the grocery list so far. Add whatever!_

It was short, and though Erik wracked his brains he couldn’t think of something worthwhile to add. He loaded his bag and turned off lights, glancing at his phone screen to wonder how eggs, onions, and flour had become coveted items so quickly.

The masks, both of them, were left hanging by the side door, and Erik slipped them on before venturing out. He locked the door and started off, glancing back briefly to check for oncoming walkers when…

The lights were on. The evening gloom was cut by cheerful Edison bulbs and placards, signs, and hastily printed banners full of bad spelling and punctuation screaming that places were open for pick up, delivery, and… grocery?

Curious, Erik turned and walked towards the nearest cafe. 

“Hey, Erik!” called the owner from the doorway. He fiddled with his flimsy surgical mask. “Good to see you! How’s Christine?”

“She’s fine,” he replied, then pointed to his new mask. “She’s staying busy.”

“That’s great! Hey,” he bagged a packet of coffee beans and set it on a table, then headed back to the doorway. “Take her some coffee. If she likes it, I’m selling it by the pound, yeah?”

Erik nodded. “Thanks, I’ll let her know.”

He trudged off, avoiding the handful of other shoppers, and made it no more than a few feet when another shouted his name. From behind a bright red bandana, the charcuterie guy talked up his salami and ham, and his partner, the baker, had bread, eggs, flour, butter, oats, and apples. Erik whipped out his credit card and took care of half the list without a second thought. Then he went back to the cafe.

“You got cream?”

He bought a pint. Then he nearly skipped when he found, among other things, limes and lemons at the cocktail place, onions, tomato, and spinach at the sandwich shop, along with cooked beans by the serving, pint, or gallon. He bought a pint and, with his bag loaded and a paper sack full of the rest, made an awkward wave and started for home, past the folding tables here and there that served as store fronts.

“Man, I can’t wait to see a show again. We could always hear the jam sessions out here!” A murmur of agreement and good cheer ran through the row. Erik smiled sadly behind his mask to see them all nodding together.

“If you have any plans, let us know. We’ll all have specials on the big night!”

“Those ones in the costumes were great customers. Miss those weirdos.”

“Man, the crowds will be huge!”

“Crowds, am I right?”

They all laughed bitterly. 

“Thanks, everyone. I’ll let Christine and the crew know they can shop here.” Erik adjusted his load and headed home, missing the crowds he used to carefully avoid, and not just for the income, but the energy and life. The life was gone from the street, the theater.

The world.

Curious, he pulled up the group chat. There was some back and forth, checking to make sure everyone’s roommates were well and, after scrolling a few pages down, the obligatory pictures of cats.

Then a series of links. 

…

Erik burst into the apartment and dumped his bags onto the counter.

“Christine, you have to see this!”

“You did the shopping, great!”

“No, no, well, yes. There’s grocery at all the cafes and bars.”

“Oh!” She held up the salami. “This will go great in the salad I have planned. And I can throw some bacon and broth into these beans and we’ll have some amazing soup. Hang on, is that a cocktail in a plastic cup? Oh my god, you found cream!”

“This!” he exclaimed, and held up his phone. “Look at _this_.”

…


	3. Hashtag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd think being locked up would stop time... also Zoom meetings are awk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave my husband a haircut today. It doesn't suck. :)

They didn’t sing that night. Instead, Erik cut lengths of elastic for Christine between texts with the AV guy and the intern. They bounced ideas around while Erik watched and mostly kept quiet.

_Can we set up a Patreon?_

_To post the recordings?_

_Yeah-- maybe even make packages._

_with tiers?_

It sounded good. Erik liked the idea of keeping up interest in the theater. Maybe they could drum up some deferred ticket sales or gift certificate programs. He started typing.

_I like it. Put together some ideas and get back to me?_

_Gotchu boss._

Erik set his phone down and snipped through elastic. “If you were going to set up a digital subscription service, how would you get the word out?”

Christine took her foot off the sewing machine pedal. The motor buzzed in protest. “Now, or two months ago?”

“Now.”

She straightened the pleats she was working on and bit her lip. “Every social media outlet you have ever been mentioned in, start yelling at them. Get their attention and get back on their radar. Put up flyers around town, any place that has traffic anymore. Friends and family, and call in favors. You need to break through people’s news clouds and Netflix haze.”

Erik grimaced and snipped again sharply. “I feel like I need to hate something. Why do I feel like I need to hate something?”

“Because,” Christine said, tucking a seam edge, “you need a catchy slogan.”

“Damn it.”

“Isn’t there a whole company full of theater kids with their finger on the pulse of pop culture and tagging at your disposal?” The sewing machine rumbled and whizzed back to life.

“Yes, but our slogan needs to have some class.” Erik paced, tapping surfaces compulsively. “It needs to convey the gravity of the situation but evoke the soul of the arts, the way theater and music bring us all together, not just here but everywhere. I want people to feel they’ve got our stage right in their room with them but also every audience, too.” 

Erik walked to the balcony doors and looked out over the square. The garden below had been planted with cheap pansies, cheerfully incongruous under the dark, half empty apartments. They glowed pink and yellow under the string lights. 

He drew a deep breath, his throat, for a moment, tight with emotion. “That they’re there on the balconies of Italy, singing along because there’s nothing more human than celebrating beauty in the middle of a calamity. How do you hashtag that?”

Christine set a freshly completed mask on her ever-growing pile, picked up her teacup, and looped her arm through his. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t write it.” 

…

Christine joined the team in charge of creating the streaming site and created an awareness campaign; Erik knew when he was outclassed. Besides, he was better behind the scenes and the world probably preferred it that way.

Today he would do his part by going to the main street grocery, now equipped with scannable codes that took you to their order site. Stand on your painted square, shout your banter from the street and wait for your order. The cafe staff’s bandannas were looking decidedly ragged.

“Hi Erik!” The sandwich guy held up his phone to show that he had the order. “Good to see you! I’ll have this out in a minute.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, is that a different mask?”

“Uh, yeah?” His black one was in the wash, and Christine had a dark blue one ready to go. “Christine is really good with making them.”

“No kidding? Wow. Comfortable?”

Erik laughed darkly. “As these things go, yes.”

The sandwich guy held up his hands. “Oh, hell, I didn’t--”

“I am seriously screwing with you,” Erik deadpanned. The funny thing about masks though, is that sometimes you sound like you’re kidding, but you may also sound like a serial killer. Late self awareness is better than never. “Let me talk to Christine, we might be able to help you out.”

Sandwich guy relaxed and bagged a pound of ham like he’d just dodged death. “That would be great! Thanks!”

Erik gathered his order and walked on to hunt up eggs and a cocktail kit. There weren’t many free standing buildings with their businesses, but the theater and the craft cocktail bar were two of them, along with an upscale menswear and tailor, still owned by the founder’s family. Erik made it to one or two owner’s meetings a year, painful as they were. The rest of the businesses were in shared buildings, their storefronts opening onto the pavement with chalkboards announcing specials in better times. Now they listed what they could offer and reminders to keep back.

He scanned the code and made an order, then texted Christine.

_Folks at the grocery look like they could use masks. What do you think?_

“Hey man, just the limes and the kit today?”

“That’ll do it.”

“I threw in some mint, too. You’ll love it in the G&T. Are you gonna log in to the district owner’s meeting this afernoon? We’re talking rent relief and how to apply for assistance.”

“I don’t have renters, so I’m not sure I have much to say.”

The bar owner shrugged his bulky shoulders. “You don’t have audiences either. Here,” he dropped a slip of paper into the bag and stepped back. “That’s the meeting ID and password. You should come.”

Erik now understood why masks made people nervous. “I’ll be there. Thanks for the mint.”

His phone pinged as he started towards home.

_That’s a great idea! I’ll go down there tomorrow and get everyone set up. What do you think they’ll like?_

_Just bring some of everything, but make sure to bring florals for the cocktail bar. He loves pink._

Erik’s walk was a little lighter on the way home.

…

The mint was nice. Not nice enough to take back the bit about floral prints. Okay, maybe a little, but Christine was packing so many masks there was no way it would be a problem.

“The AV guy and your intern have a good structure set up. It’s enough to get a Patreon started and offer a few categories and tiers. We can always add more later.”

Erik chewed a mint leaf and leaned his head back on the sofa. “There should be enough to run for a while on what’s on the hard drives in the booth.”

Christine lovingly laid another dozen masks in a bag and sealed it. “That will all load fast. We can mix and match to create packages and roll them out over time. Your intern asked if you have any, and I quote, ‘old school’ stuff lying around?”

“Smarmy shit.” Erik liked the kid. “The lockers under the stage. If he’s feeling retro, he can give that a try. I never had time.”

“I’ll let him know. Now, go log on, that meeting is starting.”

“I’d rather be insulted by a nineteen year old.”

...

Erik slipped on his mask and remembered that he hated video meetings. No one needed to know he didn’t have a private office, so after carefully arranging things, he set the laptop on his dresser and sat on the bed. 

“Thanks for coming, everyone. In these unprecedented times…”

Mint was very good in this cocktail. It was even better in the second one. Despite that, Erik zoned out due to the repeated and inappropriate use of the word ‘unprecedented’ more than the generous pour in his drink kit. The alterations to everyday language were as irritating as… this online meeting.

“Which brings us to our next item, our role in debt relief. We all agree that it’s unreasonable to expect our tenants to pay full rents when they don’t have income, so I wanted to send out links to the federal and state programs we might qualify for. Now, if you click on the link--”

An alert blinked in the chat.

“Hang on, the link is busted. I bet that site is updated. Does anyone have the new link?”

Someone helpfully posted the link in the chat box. It was not Erik.

“Ah, thank you. Now, if you follow that link you’re… oops, let me turn on screen sharing… oh dear that’s not it.”

Four of the attendees leaned forward and Erik was suddenly grateful for his mask. Dogs barked and someone had a TV on too loud. 

“Okay, if you click that link… no, hang on, the new one. If we click that link we see a list of forms. There’s three that seem to apply at the federal level. Let’s go through them now and we can discuss which ones we qualify for, then do the same with the state forms…”

He texted Christine.

_Help_

He wanted to die. It was bad enough to do forms and applications at all, but there was nothing worse than looking up people’s noses while they squinted at a form together and discussed it.

“Historical Society,” he blurted out. The mint was _really_ good.

“Erik, if you want to talk you should raise your hand on the app to make a motion. We sent out updated bylaws. Now, what were you saying?”

“Oh knock it off. Look, these are all historical buildings or they qualify for historical status. At the very least the Historical Society will know exactly what programs we all qualify for and what forms we should use. They might even help fill them out” He tapped the chat function open and started typing in the street address for the group along with their archaic website address and phone number. “Here, I’ll even put up a link.”

“Well, that is extremely helpful. Are you certain the link isn’t old?”

“Of course it’s old, it’s the Historical Society,” Erik joked. It was wasted on this crowd. “I promise it works,” he assured, “but they’ll love it if you mail them a letter. Pro tip, they like sealing wax.”

Christine chose that moment to breeze into the camera view. “Sorry, everyone! I need to borrow Erik. Got some important theater stuff for him to deal with. I’ll see you all tomorrow with some masks!” She pushed the laptop closed before they could even say goodbye.

“Thank you.”

“I was listening. I can’t believe you made it as long as you did.”

“The only thing that mattered I managed to get done.” He pulled the mask off and cracked his neck. “So, what’s up at the theater?”

She smiled and stepped between his legs. “Nothing, but you do have some very important business to attend to.”

Thrills ran down Erik’s back and flipped through his insides, but just as he was ready for her to climb up on him, and even started leaning back, she took him by the hand and pulled him out into the living room. She’d already raised the fallboard on the piano.

Erik grinned loosely as he settled onto the bench. “Is this a command performance?”

“No,” Christine replied. She slid next to him and sighed into his shoulder. “But it’s sunset on a day that ends in ‘y’, and I can’t bring myself to thread another needle tonight.” 

Without a word, Erik stretched his fingers and eased into the opening bars of a soothing piece. Though Erik generally did not like experimental music, he had to admit the concept of evocative soundscape was useful. Built on the idea that music could be reduced to minimal functions designed to create a response was…

Well it was the basis of a whole lot of YouTube, wasn’t it? Ten hour long videos of ambient sounds had dizzying numbers of views.

So he played a series of chord progressions, occasional shifts, pieces of phrases. Like bits of muffled dialogue; the keys in quiet conversation with each other. 

Christine looped her arm under his and rested her hand lightly on his arm. “That’s nice. What is it?”

“No idea. It’s for you.” He threw in a little glissando and she closed her eyes and smiled. “Are you doing okay?”

Her brow tightened fractionally, then smoothed again. “I’m glad I’m stuck with you.”

Erik turned and pressed his lips to her forehead. “We’re going to be okay.”

Christine’s fingers on his arm loosened, then drifted, skimming down his arm to trace his knuckles as he played. That shift in her touch was electric, sparking off sensations that skittered up his arm. His notes lingered, lengthening over the moment as she stroked upwards, then skipped over to his chest.

The keys had done their job. Slowly, Erik left them and took Christine’s hands in his.

“I love you,” he reminded her. Some people did not let on when they were upset, but threw themselves into work. It made them amazing housemates and partners but it meant paying attention to their quirks. Christine had closed out two contract projects in as many weeks and taken on the task of sewing masks for the entire theater and then just kept going. 

She wasn’t a brooding little shit like him. When disasters came for Christine, she sorted the mess into piles and kept on going. She’d been running on fumes for a few weeks, and she needed him.

Erik kissed her fingertips and the insides of her wrists, then wrapped his arms around her in a spindly cocoon. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

They made their way back to the bedroom with purpose heavy in their kisses, drugging their movements. If ever there was an affirmation of life and living, it was in the way Christine stalked him, pinning him down with her legs and a hand over his heart. If there was an expression for the need to feel, to channel passion, it was in his weight that she dragged closer, and the thrusts that she welcomed.

If there was ever an act of defiance, of manacled victory, it was in the noises they clawed out of each other, clutching at the last strains of crisis and coda, vitality crashing against the miasma lurking beyond.

They panted in the darkening room, curling around each other until they dozed, still slick and bound. 

Erik awoke with a start at a repeated pinging coming from the next room. Christine finally picked her head up and grimaced, tangled curls flopping madly over her eyes.

“You should check that. It must have gone off like, ten times.”

With a grunt, Erik burrowed closer and tried to nestle against her again.

“You had that meeting. It could be important.”

Damn. “You’re right. I’ll see what it is and start dinner.”

On legs that surely had been sturdier hours before, Erik made his way to the living room. His phone pinged at least twice more on the way. He tapped the screen and blinked down at his text messages and started reading.

The water in the shower started to run. “Who is it?”

“That intern,” Eric called down the hall as he sat on a stool. He grinned when he heard Christine’s wobbly, uneven tread from the bedroom “He sent lists of what he found in the storage locker.” Next to him, Christine’s phone started chirping. The water cut off soon after and she came out all pink and drippy, with a lazy, lopsided smile on her face.

He handed her the phone and she started checking through messages. “Oh, looks like the Patreon is getting some traction. We appear to be trending locally.”

Still scrolling, Erik glanced up. “You made a catchy slogan, didn’t you? What's the bottom line on trending locally?” The list was crazy. The kid had cataloged the VHS and audio tapes and, as of an hour ago, had started on the films.

“Looks like it means about a grand so far. Not too shabby for one evening with limited content roll out.”

“That’s awesome. It’ll help keep us afloat if we can take care of baseline expenses.” He kept scrolling, reading titles, dates, and main performers. Then his heart stopped. 

“Hey, what is it?” Christine set her phone down. “Are you okay?”

Erik looked up. “You know those film canisters I put in the lockers? After the remodel?”

“Yeah?”

He swallowed. It wasn’t easy, for his throat was suddenly tight. “We need to call the Historical Society.”

...


	4. Reel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the oddest things gain traction on the interwebs...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lightly edited... c'mon, this is marshmallow therapy for all of us.

He couldn’t help it. Just the idea of being on camera made him jumpy, so Erik kept angling himself to keep his face out of frame. The film cans rattled like maracas in the box he was holding, jittering in his grasp. 

“Erik, calm down,” Christine said as she flipped her pages. “Just ignore them and get on with it.” 

He carefully set the next can of film in the box. “It’s not easy when you’ve avoided cameras as long as I have.”

“It’s only for documentation. Your guy at the Historical Society was about to come through my phone when I told him we were going to box them up without him.”

“Fine, fine,” Erik groused as he tugged at his gloves and checked the labels. “Here’s the Chaplin reel. I’m going to box it up with Valentino and Buster Keaton. Same era, same field?”

“Sounds fine. Careful, make sure not to snag the catches.” Christine made a note on her list and squinted at the rows. “What’s next?”

Erik scrolled to the next section. “The Vaudevilles.” He could feel his neck getting hot despite the chilly substage. “These are the stage acts that were filmed here. First up, Bob Hope.”

The boxes were foam-lined wood with steel reinforced corners. Transporting archive material was not Erik’s field. He owned a few copies of sturdy sheet music from the thirties, one signed by the Gershwins, but vintage film was as fragile as spun glass. 

And these were the early works of his theater, from the era when she was still a beauty, before she was laminated and carpeted. When the founders of the American stage still made stops in train towns on their way to bigger cities and the theater owners would film what they could. 

Maybe he could go work on the plumbing. It was less nerve wracking. 

“Alright. I have the Mel Brooks Revue reels. They’re going in with Hurt and Gish.” As Erik reached to the side and sharply turned back when he saw the glint of the camera wink at him. “Is this really necessary?”

Christine shrugged. “They really insisted on it, but if you prefer we could try something less intrusive in the future?”

Once the canisters were settled into the boxes securely, Erik straightened and cracked his back. “Fine,” he said, and waggled his finger at her. “Fill the place with cameras, just leave me out of it.” He consulted the list and started carefully checking crackling labels when his phone chirped with a text.

“It’s the kid. He’s checking in.”

Christine took the tablet and scrolled through the list. “He checked in twenty minutes ago.” 

Erik tugged off his soft cotton gloves (the Society insisted) and tapped on the work table. The intern was bright and tenacious. Willing to work hard, and nothing was beneath him. It was a good attitude to have in theater. Someone that young and bright was certain to move on, but if you play your cards right, they might boomerang back. He typed back a reply.

“I asked if he was interested in working on a project.”

Christine looked up. “What project?”

“No idea.” He slung a dusty arm at the cases. “Something is bound to come up.”

When all the canisters were carefully logged and packed, and the hundreds of VHS tapes were boxed up, Erik drove them over to the Historical Society and figured that was that.

He figured wrong. 

_You’re not going to believe this._

…

Showered, bare faced, and enjoying a bowl of leftovers was how Erik hoped to end most days. He would prefer to have locked up after a late show rather than mid afternoon on a day full of digging in a dusty closet, but such was life. 

“So you took the films back to the theater?”

He swirled a noodle in rich sauce. “Yep. Didn't want them to sit in my car, so I just took them back.” They’d need cream again soon. “They can digitize the tapes but the films require restoration work.”

“Sounds… complicated. Where does that happen?”

“The university. There’s a digital archiving program there and they’re always on the hunt for local material. Some grad students do it for thesis work, and there’s some endowment, so it’s always funded.” He scraped a bit of bread through the sauce and wondered “Oh, how did the mask drop off go? Those bandanas weren’t going to last much longer.”

Christine perked up. “It went great! I had extras, so the sandwich guy is selling them tomorrow. At five bucks a pop, it’s self sustaining. I hope you don’t mind, but I called up the costumers and some of them have been making masks, too. We’re going to donate some to the local food bank and sell the others at the market. What do you think?”

The fork dripped luxuriously, suspended over his bowl. Erik felt a corner of his mouth lift. “I think it’s amazing. The food bank?”

“They’ve had to step up their distribution. Our area is kind of hard hit.”

It was. The area was considered gentrified, but that just meant you couldn’t see the people that prosperity left out. Their apartment complex straddled the line between the two; steps apart, but worlds away.

“Have you been in contact with them yet?”

“The food bank? Just an email letting them know. I was going to call when we had a few dozen masks to donate.”

Erik stood and refilled their water glasses. “So, tomorrow?”

“Ha, ha,” she said. Just as she was about to say more, her phone screen lit up with an alert. “It’s just the Patreon.”

“Oh?” Erik said, distracted by the excellent dinner. He was certain the fresh rosemary was stolen from some landscaping but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It went perfectly with the chicken shreds and the last of her homemade noodles. As surreal as the day had been, handling possibly unseen footage of the greats, treading the same stage as Christine, poetry readings, fashion shows, ballets, quartets, and the occasional bit of fishnetted debauchery.

He snorted. And why not?

The sudden clank of glass on the table startled him out of his thoughts. 

White faced and open mouthed, Christine held her phone in both hands and looked up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She started pushing the phone at him. “Take it. Take it. Look.”

The screen started to dim so he tapped it to see clearly. “Okay, it’s okay, it’s just the Patreon page,” he soothed as he scrolled slowly. “Oh, that’s a great banner, and here’s the… wait… what--”

His eyes immediately blurred, but there were definitely five figures in that number. 

“That’s just since yesterday,” Christine said softly. “We’ve officially gone viral.”

“Shit.”

…

After a frenzied hour of phone calls and double checking with Christine’s spreadsheets, Erik had a structured account set up for the money. He was a better musician than businessman, but he was pretty sure that it was enough money to keep the theater and his staff going for a few months. 

When the last arrangements were made, his phone was hot and the sun was down. Christine shut her computer off and flopped on the sofa as Erik abandoned the phone for a glass of wine. 

“So,” he said after a mouthful. “That happened.”

“Yep. It did.” She sat up and twisted her hair into a clip. A mass of curls flopped artfully, undeterred by the recent scramblings. “And you know what this means, right?”

Erik groaned. There was a world of difference between creators and content creators. He’d happily entertained hoards for years, flinging art into open space and locking up afterwards. With the internet, the show never ended and there was no end… to anything. Feeding the beast was demanding and the beast always got greedy, demanding ever more and ‘better’ content. 

Erik sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Damn.”

“Yeah, damn. It’s late, we can call the AV guy and the intern tomorrow.”

“No need,” Erik grumbled as his overheated phone demanded attention again. “I’d bet you that was the intern but we both know--” he paused as he checked the message. “Yep. Our darling intern is checking in again. I’ll ask what they’ve got loaded on the cloud.”

“Good,” Christine said, then finished the wine Erik had left on the little side table. She scrolled through comments and feedback while Erik texted with the intern. He had to admire the kid-- whether the enthusiasm was from boredom, loneliness, or genuine drive was hardly an issue Erik wanted to delve into. In any case, he liked it.

“He’s asking about the project.”

“What project?”

“Exactly.” Erik wracked his brains, then had an idea. He texted the Historical Society, then the kid, then gave up and set up a conference call. By the end, they had a project, and the University would send the paperwork in the morning for digital signatures. Erik breathed a sigh of relief that they didn’t ask for a fax.

“What are you looking so pleased for?” 

He took his glass back and poured in a bit more wine. “We made a project, everyone is on board, and the kid even has a car.”

“You’re going to have to back up, darling.”

“The short version is that those reels of film are worthless stuck in a closet, but could get a grad student to work with a funded project.”

“Right. But they’re in a closet.”

“Ah, but the kid has a car. And the grad student needs a research assistant, so in return for access to the restored, digitized recordings of those films, the University gets to keep the reels and the grad student gets a free assistant for a few weeks. Oh, we’re renting a dorm room now, by the way.”

Her blank stare was marred by the curl that twitched with her blinks.

Erik handed over the wine. “Content. This is our path to premium content.” He turned back to the kitchen and started running hot water to do the dishes.

“Not your only path,” she said as she sipped. “In the morning we’re talking to the AV guy about live streams.”

He almost broke a bowl.

...


	5. Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik sees opportunity and also he really needs a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a hard time processing the last few weeks, and while I can handle one major world event, I cannot do two. Skimmed a few events tangentially, and that's where I'll leave it. I do not have the chops, the authority, nor confidence to do more. But I can project my constant need to do good things with a stiff drink in my hand.

After a soak, massage, cuticle cream, and a dusting with Christine’s ‘diffusion powder’, Erik flexed his camera-ready hands and sat at the keys with a cheeky ten minutes to spare. Which meant he had time to stew while Christine made her adjustments.

“I’m too sober for this.”

“You’ll be amazing.” She used a folder to cast a shadow, watching the screen. 

“I don’t want to talk. And don’t pan up.”

She sent a text and checked the website. “Your stage manager is doing the introduction. Elbows and below only. Got it.”

Erik stretched his fingers and breathed. It was just them at the piano. No different from every other evening. “How many people are logged in?”

“Twenty.”

Oh. That was no big deal. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

They’d decided on three songs for a total of just over twenty minutes. He’d planned a set of classic selections that everyone loved but… somehow Debussy, a Chopin nocturne, and light jazz didn’t suit his mood. 

Two minutes. 

“Up to thirty. The playlist is up.”

“Okay.” 

Like some of his heroes, he’d misspent a few years transcribing music for income. As a result, his repertoire was massive, spanning the spectrum of transcendent to silly and back again, because what is revolutionary to one ear is tired and overplayed in another. What is ridiculous to one is fun and fresh to another. Everyone enjoys the classics and standards, though. No one dislikes Claire de Lune or the jazz that makes you think of colorful lights and champagne toasts. Anyone would enjoy them. And yet.

Erik glanced up, sensing the time. Christine tapped the camera feed and gave him a thumbs up.

Conscious thought released its hold and his hands sprang into action. You know, if you did it just right, there was a campanella effect in the flourishes of Toto’s _Africa_ and how could anyone not like that? At the end of the song he chose to avoid an awkward pause and transitioned straight from the _de novo_ yacht-rock campanella into a passage from Saint-George, all dancing and light. His fingertips bounced through the piece, twisting over the brisk pastorals, bright with edgy technicals; crystalline and flawless.

He closed the piece with the light touch it deserved. There was just over five minutes left. Not much time, but just perfect for…

Erik leaned into the opening and chanced a glance and _oh yes_. She knew. Of course she knew. She knew the Liebestraum almost as well as he did. 

He lingered over notes, dragging sensuality from every passage, drawing out the glissandos like caresses before crashing into the refrain hard enough to jitter the delicate wooden music stand. The final tremolo growled and the closing was a calculated stumble, suggesting haste and promise. The last notes faded like a door, discreetly closing.

Touch grazed over his fluttering pulse as he released the sustain. Christine was just behind him, tracing fingertips over his hard cheekbones, down his chin and so, so lightly over his throat. Erik cupped the hand at his neck, pulling her closer, and Christine had to grab at his arm to avoid falling. Her low laugh was hot against his ear.

“Turn it off, quick,” he rumbled and shoved the bench back to stand. Christine let out a breathy giggle of agreement as she slapped at the screen to cut off the stream. They rushed toward the bedroom, tugging at each other’s clothes.

Christine bit her lip as she pushed him toward the bed. “I forgot how good you look in a suit,” she said as she unbuttoned him. 

“I used to only wear suits, even tuxedos,” he muttered as he sat and pulled her to stand between his legs. Her unbuttoning slowed down while he nuzzled her breasts through her t-shirt.

“You _do_ look amazing in a tux,” she sighed, then she dropped her hands from his shirt and pulled off hers. 

“I was compensating,” Erik managed. 

Christine smiled and slid his shirt off his shoulders, pushing him to slide to the center of the bed. Then she followed and arranged herself into an exquisite lapful and toyed with his belt.

“Erik?”

Yep. That was him. “Yeah,” he ground out.

A little tug. A little scratch just under the hipbone made him twitch. “Why did you change the playlist?”

Hard to catch his breath when she did _that_. “What?”

More twitching.

“The playlist. The one we agreed on.” Christine pressed herself against him. “You know, some DeBussy and jazz and so on. Not that I’m complaining, you know, but...” she grazed his throat with the tip of her nose.

Erik’s eyes fluttered closed and he vaguely recalled the dull list. “Oh. I thought it would be more fun.” The weight in his lap shifted and his trousers were undone. “A few dozen people got a dealer’s choice curated show, how can that be bad?”

Christine stopped. “A few… what?”

“Huh?” Erik opened his eyes and saw Christine staring. “What?”

“Thirty-thousand, Erik. There were more than _thirty-thousand_ people watching expecting a private concert of Claire de Lune and Chopin.”

Ice trickled through Erik’s veins. “I played Toto. Oh, no, no, no…”

A warm hand on his chest soothed his breathing. “Well, I mean, you recovered nicely but it was more than a little unexpected.”

Warmth replaced the shocking chill that had shot through him moments ago, and a relieved laugh escaped. “Well, I could have done a lot worse. I mean, I didn’t Rickroll them or play _Piano Man _.”__

____

____

“That’s true,” Christine said thoughtfully. “I suppose you ought to be rewarded then since, we did bring in--” she pulled her phone from her back pocket and tapped a few times. “An additional nine thousand dollars.”

Erik flopped backwards and stroked Christine’s thighs with a groan. When he looked up, she was squinting at the screen. Then she winced.

“Oh, god. Everyone heard us at the very end. They’re saying how hot it was.”

“To be fair--”

“Shh,” she hushed and tossed her phone aside. “We can post some dumb double entendre tomorrow. For now--” Christine slipped out of her remaining clothes. “You can keep whispering in my ear.”

She took his breath away instead.

…

After an overly enthusiastic meeting with the AV team and plans to expand the live streaming and video uploads, Erik kissed Christine before she headed out for a trip to the market. He had some things to complete before the intern could head to the university with the films, and so he settled in for a nice mid morning coffee and a general check-in with the world.

The few blocks he inhabited had taken his attention for weeks, from a little music for the neighbors and learning a new way to eat to just… being at the theater for work and not just out of habit. All the dear little cracks in the restored tile mosaics and the few remaining glass blocks; the very texture of them was novel now since he saw them less often. The shops had limited selection but it was fresh and mostly reliable. If they couldn’t get exactly what they wanted, well, there was still food and that was fine. It was nice to not worry about it. Which reminded him, there was a meeting with the food bank later that day. 

Erik popped open his laptop absently and pulled up the news on mute, then set his speakers to play a set of Russian composers while he sipped coffee and let his eyes glaze at charts and bad graphs while he handled his emails and texts.

He quickly lost track of time. The clock fades when history compacts itself into a large, uncoated pill. Headlines smashed each other off the tickers as successes and failures stacked. Spaceflights and hope were flabby and hollow in the face of the suffering, the righteous, and the wronged. Billowing clouds sent people scattering and he knew, he knew, it wasn’t new and he had no right to feel surprise.

The news just kept coming, and his coffee was cold when he heard the door open.

“Hey,” Christine greeted softly as she set down her bags and joined him. “Nothing is really happening here but there’s a few extra patrols routing through the area.” She kissed his cheek and took away his cold coffee. “Are you okay? What are you listening to?”

“Uh, Shostakovitch. Eleventh.”

“Nope,” She said as she paused the playlist and shuffled to his ambient channel. “Probably ought to avoid the soundtrack of Russian revolutions this week. Here,” she handed him a fresh cup of coffee and a fresh roll from the bakery. “Meeting with the food bank in twenty minutes. The operation just got bigger.”

…

A cottage industry sprang up in the costuming department of the theater. Christine and the others took turns using the big tables to create assembly lines of orderly wedges and sheets to take home for stitching. One brought in her aunt’s massive stash of quilting fabric and Christine cooed over the variety from pastel ginghams and cabbage roses to subtle batiks and Japanese waves. 

“And she said this was just the first box!” Christine cried with delight as she scanned the pictures. “I get my picks tomorrow.”

Erik sniffed over his spreadsheets and checked his contacts again. “God help us if this goes out of style. I don’t want to imagine the horrors of upcycled masks.”

She unfolded herself from her desk chair and mock glared at him. “How do you feel about quilts? You seem like you could be a quilt guy.”

“I am a whiskey drinking bastard who only bought a second blanket because a pretty girl caught a chill on my balcony. Pretty sure I’m not a ‘quilt guy’.”

Christine grinned. “At least you stopped calling yourself ugly.” 

He wasn’t a quilt guy because he didn’t need one. Her kiss warmed him to his toes. 

She refilled her tea and got back to work. “The food bank needs masks, so we’re ramping up again to donate. The sales will support it.”

“Thought you’d pretty well saturated the shops?”

“Started selling on the Patreon site. People will pay for variety, it turns out. We’ve gotten requests for some pretty elaborate stuff, look!”

Recipients posted pictures of themselves proudly sporting feathered balaclavas, intricately edged lace, and cleverly constructed monsters with gills, fire breath, and tentacles.

She pointed to one with delicately stitched dragon scales. “This one sold for sixty.”

“Not sixty thousand, right?”

With a laugh, she scrolled further through a few more whimsical pieces, mostly sold. “Just sixty, but moving just a few of these lets us donate a ton of basic ones.”

There it was again. That gnawing feeling that he was about to have an idea that would mean doing a lot of things, not sleeping much for a while, and, quite possibly, having to interact. With _people_.

But people lived all around and sometimes clapped for his music in the evening. People went to the theater and tapped their feet to music, laughed at comedies and cried at tragedy. People got sick, and they got hurt, and they needed help.

Damn.

“Christine, I might have an idea.”

…

Two days after the first food bank distribution, Erik returned to the theater to find the pavement out front swept clean and the trash freshly emptied. A last minute delivery of potatoes had sent everyone scrambling for space and he’d allowed additional tables to line the entire theater front. It wasn’t a huge thing, but it was a safe, central landmark with a side parking lot they might not have had access to otherwise. 

A quick plod took him past the now perpetually empty dumpster and up to the side entrance. It was already unlocked.

“Hey, Boss!” came a muffled call. “We’re all set if you want to head on down!”

The intern had rigged a set of cameras around the room and was watching the screen on another, interviewing the masked representative from the Historical Society. The man constantly moved to fuss with his mask only to stop himself and fold his hands again. 

“Where’s Christine?”

The intern’s eyes crinkled over his mask. “Fabric. I hear they’ve got some neat stuff this time.”

Eric grunted and eyed the cameras that lined the room. “There’s already three of us in here, let’s hurry it up.”

“Let me start the last camera,” the intern said. He tapped away on his phone and held it up just as Christine joined them. “And, go ahead!”

The head of acquisitions and preservation from the Historical Society said a few words, then turned it over to Erik, who said fewer. The entire time, the intern circled the room, getting close ups on the hard copies of materials transfer documents, dorm room rental fee, and non-student release forms. He checked the feeds on his laptop between prowling the room and close up shots, and Erik leaned over to Christine.

“Am I like that? Just skulking around and watching everything?”

She stifled a smile. “It’s kind of like there’s two of you.”

“Kinky,” Erik quipped, then followed Christine out of the room and back upstairs. “Did you talk with the mask team?”

“They love the idea. We were discussing timeline and roll out. We were also wondering if we might just make it a feature? You know, a weekly event?”

“Love it. Think we could fit in the Saturday morning story time and sing-a-long, too?”

Christine gave a mock gasp. “Are you suggesting returning some regular programming?”

Erik looked up as the intern, carrying the crate of film, was followed out by the fussing historian. Relief at being out of the small room was palpable, and the historian now fussed over the crate and it’s fittings rather than the low ceiling. His phone chirped announcing the receipt of his transfer of custody of the films to the university, and his financial support of the intern’s housing. Then he got an email from the food bank with an update on the number of people who had come that weekend and the number of pounds of food they’d distributed. Then a text from the AV team to coordinate the next live feed, and another with the top three requests from the patrons.

Number two was him, whispering poetry.

He was too sober for this.

“Yes. Let’s call the company. We clearly need to accelerate some plans.”

...

…


	6. Purpose and Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik finds his purpose once again.

An announcement for song requests was posted on the Patreon site on Tuesday. By Wednesday afternoon the AV tech needed to create a spreadsheet just to list the more than three hundred requests, and by Thursday they had to shut it down because the poor man had other work to do. The stage manager took the task of sorting and categorizing the mess, and Christine did the dirty work of cutting the worst before handing over a tidy list of thirty positively manic songs for Erik to choose from.

He looked up from the keys after a rowdy ending to Van Halen’s _Jump_. His screen was packed with fish eyed views of pumping fists in little rooms and all of them, utterly every one, filled by people having the best time he’d seen anyone have in months. All wearing the most ridiculous costumes he’d seen since the toastchuckers had their last show before the shutdown.

“Thank you, that request was from Hank in Omaha, who was brilliant on vocals. Remember folks, that’s the deal. I’ll play anything if you provide the vocals.” Erik adjusted the GoPro mounted on his head and checked the list. “Preferably if you all provide vocals, because by the law of averages, together we ought to sound pretty good. And now, the lovely Christine will give us our next victim!”

The frenzied spring had given way to long, uneasy summer days. Details blurred across Erik’s screens as the theater and his staff, working tirelessly at the studio running the websites, feeds, and promotions, needed him more elsewhere. The AV team was worn out and stretched thin, and the performers were growing restless. If the whole world is distracted, can it still be a stage? And though everyone was doing it, every task took twice as long, limiting the productivity of even the most dedicated overachievers. 

It was exhausting, but the slightly coercive karaoke format worked for all parties involved. Especially Erik. 

“Maestro, our next song was requested three times!”

He’d prepared and prepped days before. Now, from the comfort of his familiar piano and the fine evening breeze from his open balcony, he could play the ringmaster. “Of course! Would those three losers please raise your hands!”

Erik had smashed through nine songs so far. Links for donations, mask sales, food banks and relief funds, emergency assistance and legal aid were posted all over the place. It wasn’t much, but it was the best they could muster.

“We’d like to thank everyone for coming tonight,” Erik began. “As our sign off song, my angel and I will sing Vera Lynn’s _We’ll Meet Again_.” He paused, his throat burning for a moment. “We may be apart, but I know we’ll meet again.”

Christine added hastily. “The lyrics are posted in the comments section, please join us.”

And join they did. Hundreds of outlandishly masked faces with backgrounds of tiki bars and Disney castles to kittens or the stages of famous opera houses all simultaneously blurred out in a blue cast to peer at the lyrics. 

_Keep smiling through, just like you always do_

It’s a sad song, but hopeful, too. That’s probably why they all joined in as Erik and Christine lead, Christine swinging her hand in a ‘follow the bouncing ball’ to guide those who didn’t know the song. Easy song, though, so they all had it by the second chorus. Erik decided to go a few more rounds. 

Whether it was the law of averages or the easy song, he wasn’t sure, but the motley band of revelers on his screen took on a lifelike sound as evening summer breeze gusted in from the balcony. 

_Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away_

He didn’t need to see the keys. Not even to add some flourish. If he closed his eyes he could concentrate on the voices -- Christine so near, and the ever richer sound of those logged in from around the world. There must have been an update, some software patch that had improved the sound mixing. No matter, and on the last refrain he made the sound bigger and slower, a crescendo, and a fraction of a pause, universal code for for everyone to belt out the last line.

_But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day!_

Tinny applause erupted through the speakers as Christine bowed and they handed the show back to the AV tech. But a curious thing happened… the singing kept going. 

Voices on the breeze, bouncing around outside.

Erik and Christine ran to the balcony and were greeted by bright pinpoints of cellphone lights. A splatter of applause broke up the words, but they went on. Erik recoiled at the door frame and clapped a hand over his face to peer through his fingers. Glowing stars all around the walls of the complex, and from the neglected garden below. They washed out the fairy lights that drooped from leafy limbs.

Christine pulled her phone from her pocket and started recording, circling her view from the garden and tracking upwards along the walls, lingering over the silhouettes stationed on the balconies. The clumsy community acapella finished with a little cheer, then dispersed quietly back into the darkness. 

Erik gripped the balcony rail and felt the paint flaking beneath his fingers.

The world was grim. Famine and Plague were in the land and War was rattling its saber. Ignorance plugged too many ears and Pride talked too loud to hear Reason. Leaders couldn’t care for the vulnerable, and there was a critical mass of incompetents, luddites, and assholes out there. 

But there had been a lot of people on that screen wearing silly masks, and he’d lost track of all the lights in the courtyard. Too many, and his vision had blurred.

Christine put her hand on his arm. “Hey, are you okay?” 

Erik backed away from the balcony and dragged his hand down his face. The moisture was cool on his skin. 

“Despair rides before Death, Christine. Those lights, those… dumb little lights are all some people have left.” Erik paused and leaned on the counter. “When you were at your lowest, what kept you going?” he asked. 

Christine’s frown was deep and sudden. “No no, I’m okay,” he assured her. “Just… I’m thinking. What drove you?”

Her brow smoothed. “I guess, knowing that my father wouldn’t want me to suffer silently. Like he did. He’d want me to push through and find happiness however I could.” She sat and fingered the edge of her laptop. “Because doing any less feels like surrender, and hope has a better argument. Even when it’s wrong, it’s better.” 

He raised his head. “We can’t lose people to despair, Christine.” She watched intently as he stood and stiffened his spine. “It’s going to have to fight us for every single one.”

...

It’s not a war, but for all the talk of mobilizing and deploying it might as well be. Erik thought he could be forgiven for titling his group email a _call to arms_.

After the sing along, the comments started pouring in. Insipid notes on his style and musical choices were scattered among heartbreaking messages. The kind you had to read a few times to be sure you’d read it right. He’d rescued a night, healed a heart, helped them laugh, made them jump, made them _dance_. He’d saved a dull evening, a date, a _life_. 

Christine had to take a break from reading them to wipe her eyes. The AV team and the stage manager had to take an evening off.

He was looking for ideas. He was looking for creative solutions. He was looking for anything that could translate the whole mess into something feasible, and everything was on the table, no matter how ridiculous.

Well, it couldn’t get _more_ ridiculous. 

He still resisted the urge to wince and went with it. 

“If you think it’s workable, mock up a mini set and see how it looks on camera. We can always play games with layout, right?”

The energy kept climbing. 

“Sounds great. If you do it right the set transitions can get done in the cutaways. AV, you guys can jump in and help pick the best transitions. It’s not like you don’t know the show.” Erik’s phone alerted him to a text message and a reminder popped up on his screen. “Alright, I’ve got another meeting in five, so let’s meet again and see where we’re at.”

The troupe, buzzing with excitement, blinked out as Erik closed the window. His phone chirped again and he shook his head. Well, he signed up for all of this didn’t he?

_Hi boss! Good news: Progress on the films._

_Bad news: Dorms were closed, they moved me to a hotel._

Erik tapped his response and his phone chirped a moment later.

_They rolled it into the grant and applied the dorm fee to it. Check email- we’ve got a few Chaplin scenes restored. It should go faster now._

He popped open the email and there it was, in black and white, and considerably more ornate trim. A nine second clip of Charlie Chaplin doing a character walk, swinging his trademark curved cane.

_Holy hell. How much is there?_

_About seven minutes. Will send when complete._

Erik smiled and typed. 

_Send it to the Historical Society too._ He knew where his bread got buttered. 

_Will do. BTW everyone here loves the livestreams. Love the premium behind the scenes stuff. Mind if I do something with all the footage? Learning editing._

_Go ahead. Just don’t post anything before checking._

_Np. Thanks_

…

Christine collapsed onto the sofa and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. 

“We’ve still got croissants. Want one?”

She sipped and sighed happily. “Split one?”

Erik cut the bread in half and piled his half with turkey and probably too much mayo. The main street market area had closed hours ago, and they were out of tomato and lettuce. Christine peeled a spiral from the roll and ate it like a string cheese.

“Got plans tonight?”

“Nope.”

Christine stretched. “I was reading this book of translated poetry. I found one yesterday I think you’ll like. I can read it to you if you want?”

He smiled around a bite. “You can read me anything.” Erik swallowed and noted the softening sky outside. “Can I play you a little night music?”

She sipped her coffee, steam fogging her glasses. “You can play me anything.”

Erik finished his sandwich and ignored the news alert on his phone. Some harbors make better shelter than others.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I legit scheduled time today to make rice krispie treats with my kids. It was crazy fun! Protip, use extra butter.


	7. Good Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last prep continues for a planned theater event, the AV teams begs for variety, some romance happens, and Erik offers a piece of wisdom to the intern. You know... stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *live*. This story is heading into the home stretch, maybe 2-3 more chapters? Thanks for reading, and I hope this brightens your day!
> 
> I know I sometimes allude to current events... NOT TODAY SATAN

Purpose differentiates the hours, even when the purpose is manufactured. There were enough streams to keep the theater running; any excess expanded their digital capacity or got set aside for inevitable expansion. The theater buzzed with activity from before dawn and into the dark again; an endless text exchange at the margins of screens, pinging for attention in emails, and in daily video chats. 

Erik blew on his coffee and refilled Christine’s cup before checking in with the world, toggling his tabs over the local, national, and world news before checking in with the morning. Alongside the newcasters delivering grimdark spectacles in non-regional diction, smack in the middle of prime breakfast time, his chorus members were hosting a sing-a-long for children. ‘The Breakfast Club’ had gotten so big they had to break it up into groups just to keep it reasonable. As handfuls of schools opened, some teachers worked it into their distance learning, and entire preschools joined as patrons for access to favorite recordings.

That was how they’d ended up on the news.

…

The AV tech popped into the Zoom chat like a game show contestant unsure what camera to look into. The reason, of course, was that he was editing video as fast as it was coming in while taking the meeting.

Erik had only just acquired a real webcam and had finally resigned to using Christine’s computer after his laptop casing had melted at one corner. 

“Hey Boss. Got about ten minutes before I need to send this for polishing. What can I do for you?”

“You saw the headline?”

“Which one? ‘Local theater group shows art brightens dark times,’ or ‘Performers skim hard earned cash to prey on children’.”

“You’re kidd-- you know what? I know you’re not. Where are we on the big show, and can we fit in another mask ball next week?”

The AV guy sighed and switched screens. “I’m sure we can. Just… it’s a lot.”

Concerned, Erik closed a tab he’d been absently scrolling. “Are you doing okay? Do you need equipment? Another server?”

“No, I mean, yeah, probably but it’s…” He swiveled his chair and turned to the camera. “Don’t get me wrong, this is amazing and I’ll be telling everyone for the rest of my life that I did this, but it’s been _months_. Months of the same work.”

Erik sat back in his chair. “You’re bored?”

“There’s not enough time to be bored. It’s a grind. We’re just the treadmill, know what I mean?”

God, did he ever. Even the best song or show festers after a while. Of course, that was why performers invented ways to keep their jobs interesting. Erik would _never_ tell them the games he used to get up to. 

Erik grinned and took out a pen. “Let me see what I can do. Tell me, do you have any experience with music production?”

The AV guy looked up curiously. “Some. Why?”

Erik had already slashed a staff on the paper, fingers flitting. “Don’t worry about it. In the meantime get me a list of anything you need, I want that show to go off without missing a hop.”

…

Job losses slowed as more shops reopened and business picked up, so the food bank was finally able to keep pace. Partnerships that sprang up through the main street district were keeping them all afloat, so when the bar had limes too old for cocktails, the cafe was happy to juice them into salad dressings. Attendance at ‘masquerade karaoke’ doubled. Mask sales were up, and requests for chats with the costumers increased as people started a side contest for the best mask. 

Christine gave her bread dough a poke and laid a towel over it. “I spoke with the belligerent news station and threatened them with a lawsuit if they didn’t take down that obnoxious story.”

Erik glanced up from the keys and frowned. “I’m not sure I’ve got it in me to lawyer up right now.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Christine smiled wickedly. “But I’ve got a friend who owes me a favor. She’s willing to file some scary paperwork in exchange for a few requests at the next masquerade.”

“Done. But my hard limit is _American Pie_.”

With a laugh, Christine dropped a teabag into her cup and turned on the kettle. “I just love the barter economy, don’t you?”

With a crack in his joints that made Christine’s eyebrows rise, Erik sat up from his piano and tidied his notes. “I think I’ve got it. Mostly.”

“The thing for the AV team?”

“Yeah. Incidentally, do we have any idea how many of the patrons are musicians? Or, at least, think they are?”

“I’m sure we can find out.” Steam fogged Christine’s glasses as she poured water into her cup. Erik loved those little moments. 

“Is there enough for another cup?”

She smiled and fogged her glasses again. “So what are you up to?”

“Giving the AV team a challenge. I think I’ll call it ‘Polyphonic Spree.’”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, maestro, but that name’s already taken.”

“I sincerely doubt they’ve got a lawyer who owes them favors. At least not one they can pay off with song requests.” Erik held up his scribbles and jotted a few notes. “Are you up for singing a few lines?”

“Are you playing?”

Erik gave a little smile and handed her his notes and stood, stretching luxuriously once his hands were free. Watching Christine devour a new piece of music was always a treat, and even more when it was his. Her eyes darted over the handful of lyrics and a few measures. 

She sighed happily. “You always did have a thing for the leitmotif.” She sighed again when he bent and kissed the back of her neck. 

“I also have a thing for other… things.”

With a giggle, Christine turned in her chair. “Such poetry,” she teased before a kiss. “You write better than you speak.”

“I kiss better than I speak, too.”

Christine pushed him back and stood. She brushed a lazy hand over his rumpled collar all the way to the untucked edges. “Was that all you were planning to do?” 

Erik’s belly shivered and trembled when she tugged at his shirt. “Did I mention my ability to grasp the obvious?”

With another throaty giggle, Christine gave his shirt another tug and turned to the bedroom. “You’d better _never_ call me obvious.”

…

The few lines of music and lyrics were posted and the announcements made on a Thursday. Erik figured four days should be plenty of time for reasonably skilled musicians to send in a few variations without blowing out their servers. Even so, vocalists, strings, winds, brass, and percussion were all given different sites to load to and the files would be spread across several different accounts just to ease the strain. 

Besides, they needed the full power of their main system to load and edit the shots of the eighth scale stage for the big show. 

He’d even popped into the theater for the first time in nearly a month just to see them get started. Only this crowd was capable of such campy, earnest homage.

By the time the submission deadline approached, the new server computer was installed and the system was no longer in danger of redlining just for a sing along. The AV team had polished the first scenes from the mini stage scenes, editing as fast as the scenes were shot. Christine insisted on joining him to present the AV team with their new challenge, and to see what six years of summer camps at magic school had taught their stage intern.

“You never told me you had one that was a magician,” she said as she looked at a picture of the miniaturized set.

Erik unlocked the door and slipped his other mask on. “Twenty year old men don’t start conversations with ‘Hey, I spent my formative summers learning card tricks and puppetry. Can I buy you a drink?’”

“That’s fair,” Christine said as she adjusted her mask into place. Erik pushed the door open and held it for her. Just as they arrived at the stage boards, Christine paused. 

“So, what do you not tell people?”

Erik turned quickly and pushed the heavy drapes aside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

With a lunge she caught his belt loop. “Oh no, there was way too much knowledge there. Spill.”

“No.”

Christine raised up on her toes and whispered things into his ear that made his neck hot and his knees weak. 

Erik swallowed. “I’ll tell you after we see the stage and see the AV team.”

She’d bounced when she saw the mini stage, and giggled at the tiny set pieces. Her eyes twinkled when the AV stared at the hours of neatly organized material delivered to their system by the push of a button. 

Then she dragged him to his office. 

“You promised,” she said as she flung her mask on the desk and pulled him toward the futon. This one was still in great shape, probably because they’d barely been in the theater since they assembled it. It barely protested when Christine settled in his lap.

“I did. Need I remind you of yours?”

In moments, Erik’s eyes were rolled into his skull and the futon registered its first complaint. 

“Okay, _okay _!” he gasped. When she slowed, Erik caught his breath. “I spent fifteen years as a working musician while I socked away money.”__

____

____

Christine scrunched her nose. “That’s hardly news. And by the way, we’ve got the full run through with the stage manager and crew tonight.”

“Thanks. Yeah, _oh god, yeah_ ,” he shuddered. “But you know that my day job was recording, composing, and writing. What you don’t know is that my night job was playing piano bars.”

She gave a delighted laugh and spent the next ten minutes reducing him to a puddle. 

…

They picked up dinner at the deli on their way home, cow eyed and giggling at stupid things like Erik’s partially untucked shirt. They cuddled a little against the first fall chills of the season while their order was assembled. The deli guy, observant of his neighbors as always, threw in an extra loaf of bread and gave a thumbs up that was more embarrassing than the unruly shirtail. 

Christine grinned around a big bite of roasted vegetables and threw napkins at him when his sandwich gushed au jus. As he wiped his chin, his thoughts grew a little less inclined to the second half of his french dip.

With a raised eyebrow, Christine fished out a red pepper wedge. “What’s that look for?”

“I was debating the merits of dessert.”

“Meeting’s coming up soon. Besides, I don’t think we’ve got anything sweet right now, sorry.”

Erik pushed his plate and sat back in his chair. “I wasn’t thinking about that.”

Just as Christine looked to be considering the offer, Erik’s phone squealed for attention. A video popped up on his and he tapped it to play.

It was a two minute clip of a familiar black and white stage, artfully laid out and masterfully navigated by Keaton and Chaplin. No pratfalls or vaudeville antics, just the two of them effortlessly moving through a technical stage without a hitch, pause, or stumble. While dressed as train engineers with shovels on _his stage_. It was as magical a thing as Erik had ever seen and he watched it twice, then handed the phone to Christine, and watched again over her shoulder.

“That’s… our stage?” she murmured breathlessly.

“Yes. The intern has been busy.” 

As Christine sank into the couch, a text popped up and cleared the screen.

_The project is moving fast. No one else around using the studios._

Erik grinned and started typing.

_The AV team would put you to work. How’s your editing project coming?_

Christine held her head and muttered. “That video… worth _millions_ , my god…”

“We’ll be in line for access, dear. That’s a grant funded project.” His phone brought his attention back.

_Project is good. There’s a good story here but image quality is a problem. Spending my time polishing the look._

Erik frowned. _Do you recall how old and beat up most of our sets are?_

_True_

Good god, the tales some of those pieces could tell. None fit for… well, anyone really, but most of the cast had a few gashes and scars from shows and related _activities._

Erik hit send.

_People still love them because we tell the story, not the set. Tech will change. Good stories always hold up._

“Shit!” Christine yelled as she leapt up from the couch, pointing at her watch. “I’ll get us logged in to the meeting with the stage manager!”

The intern was typing. Paused. Typing again. Erik decided to cut him off.

_YOU WILL NEVER REGRET SPENDING TIME ON THE STORY. Gotta run- meeting for the big show. Keep me posted._

. 


	8. The Rocky Horror Distance Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death becomes him. At least Christine seems to think so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all stay safe out there.

Christine fussed with a seam and repositioned the pin. “I’m sorry, just try to keep still? We’ve got an hour before we need to be in the office for the next meeting and I want to get this seam straight.” She wrapped an unruly flock of curls around a clip and tucked it back. “Actual human shapes aren’t exactly my strong suit.”

“It’s fine. We have a half hour before costume needs the room back to wrap up on the puppets.” Erik rolled the words around. “I can’t believe I just said that. I’m going to need to brush my teeth after this.”

“You’ll only be more kissable.” The hair flopped yet again. “Did you see the revised piece about us on the news?”

Erik smiled under the heavy costume piece and adjusted his position in the hard chair. “The one your lawyer friend prompted? Oh yes.”

“Well, it’s being picked up by bigger stations. Probably going national in a day or two, assuming nothing more absurd than the status quo happens.” She snatched a pencil from the table and stabbed it through her hair. “That shoulder is just going to be a little wonky. I can’t fix it and finish out the head piece in time.”

“It’s fine,” he said. The reflection in the wall-sized costuming mirror was impressive. And very, very red. “I mean, one bad seam is hardly going to show under all the puffy stuff anyway.” The headpiece and mask was going to steal the show anyway. “I imagine we make a nice fifteen second happy story to soften all the grim news.”

She snorted. “Months and months of work for maybe fifteen seconds of happy talk.”

Christine’s brow furrowed as she focused on the needles and the enormous, articulated costume headpiece he was wearing. His brilliant, beautiful, loving Christine, with her need to give and give with hardly more than a nice meal and a song at the end of their long days. But everyone’s tank runs low sometimes. 

Carefully, for she was holding enough needles to turn him into a hedgehog, Erik took her hands and folded them in his. 

“I’m sorry we’re not doing the shows we want to, and I’m sorry that months of insane work and community service are being treated like a punchline to this whole shitshow. I wish I could give you more.”

The needles were settled into a pile and Christine lifted the headpiece off him and stepped close. Cool air rushed past his face, then was replaced by her warm hands. 

“I don’t want more,” she said, her words ghosting over his forehead. “I just want normal, like everyone else.” 

The same words were probably uttered in frustration thousands of times a day all across the city. There wasn’t really a response worth the breath. Erik wrapped his arms around her and sighed, nuzzling into her warm softness. 

“But there’s something I’ll settle for,” she said hopefully.

Her light perfume was subtle. Intoxicating. Erik started toying with the curls already straining against the pencil. “Anything, sweetheart.” 

She gave him a smirk. “I found the rest of the costume today!” Christine pulled out of his grasp and as Erik looked around dumbly, she snatched a heavy bag from the racks and unzipped it.

Erik looked upon a nightmare of dark red stripes and… 

“Christine, is that a _codpiece_?”

“We’re having the ‘mask-erade’ right before the big show! I thought you could get the party started? Maybe have some of the performers pretend to chase you out and we can let the stage manager take over?”

“In a massive codpiece.”

“They’re very practical.”

“ _So are zippers_.”

Christine winked. “Not for what I’ve got planned after they banish you from the party.”

She was only a little upset when he completely wrecked her hair a moment later.

…

They logged into the meeting two minutes late, joining in time to hear the general chatter and excited buzz that came with the final stretch before a big show. He liked it-- it was a sign of life that had been largely missing for months. The streams were good and kept them in jobs, but they weren’t the same challenge as a full production. 

The stage manager and AV guy ran the meeting, calling out notes while Erik and Christine sat by, content to let the grown ups run the show. Their work was grueling, too, in different ways. No one person could be the creative center for an entire theater; not when creation required so much more than a handwritten calendar, an outdated phone, and sheer force of will. 

Now, the AV box looked like a space station and the stage manager wore walkie talkies and headsets and commanded not just one but multiple stage teams, rising to the occasion like a phoenix. Interns (how many did he have now?) scurried in and out of their frames as they handled tasks. 

A question popped up in the chat here and there, and Erik fielded a few of them, referring most to the respective team leads. When he got up to grab a drink from his office refrigerator, Christine kept watch on the meeting as he opened a seltzer and took aim before tossing the cap into a trash can across the room. He handed her a bottle of water and watched the meeting carry on, a tiny sense of wonder bubbling underneath his prickly exterior. 

Christine muted their microphone. “Alright, what’s got you so thoughtful?”

The bubbling coalesced. Despite the bone-rattling anxiety and utter chaos that continued to ravage every corner of life as he knew it, he had a strange sense of… not ease, for there was simply too much to do, but something more comforting. Something that turned the panic into something less immediate and threatening. A vague sense that doom was not, in fact, imminent. 

“They’re all so… competent.” Christine said nothing, but looked up at him curiously. “I mean, I hired good people but this is,” he looked at the jigsaw of faces on the screen. Their gazes roved, checking feeds and messages, notes and spreadsheets. “These are professionals.”

Christine nodded. “They got that way because there’s a good theater manager, you know.”

Erik sat heavily on the futon behind her. “Am I a manager now? I feel like too much of a mess to be a manager.”

“I have news for you, sweetheart,” Christine said as she typed in the chat, then returned to gallery view. “Management is mostly dealing with the garbage so the specialists can do their work. That and pretending that everything is fine.”

He glanced at the screen and saw the patchwork quilt of backgrounds and people. “But, it might actually be fine?”

Christine giggled at something in the chat and smothered her grin. “I guess you’re good at it.”

“What’s going on in the meeting?”

“Nothing.” Christening started to close the laptop but stopped, instead angling the screen for him to see. Everyone in the meeting was suddenly still and a few were misty-eyed and others wiped their cheeks. 

Erik leapt from the futon. “What’s wrong? What happened?” 

Christine motioned to the chat.

Christine: _The Boss is very proud of you all._

“You WHAT--”

The image that froze on the screen as Christine exited was of Erik lunging, the unmasked portion of his face blurred in motion and distorted in agitated horror. Screenshots were, no doubt, forthcoming.

Christine packed the laptop into her bag and tugged on her jacket. “C’mon, there’s no time for this. Let’s go pick up dinner and get ready for karaoke night. You owe my lawyer friend a few more requests for how well the news story turned out.”

“I’m still not playing _Piano Man_.”

…

Time is scarce in the days before a big show, so Erik and Christine raided the market on their way home and bought all the soup, stew, and casseroles they could grab. Chilly weather made the rich food welcome, and the coming lack of time and sleep made it necessary. The sellers asked after the show, admired the activity around the theater and thanked them for their support of the district. 

Erik bought a cocktail and sipped it surreptitiously on the walk home. Christine wrinkled her nose when she tried it and handed it back. 

This was not heaven. This was not even a dream, but Erik was grateful for these moments-- an eye in a never ending hurricane. He hoped that they could keep doing these things when everything was less terrible. Maybe the world could pick up a few better habits when this was over.

…

There were five cameras pointed at the stage and six more around the theater space. Live feeds were arranged in some performer’s homes and the secondary cast was doing dance numbers and ‘crowd’ scenes in a nearby movie theater that had sat empty for months. The primary cast, who had seen no one but each other for nearly a month, was in the theater, distanced, and would have solo and close up shots, while scenes of interaction…

Erik sighed. 

Christine double checked the costume. “I know what you’re grousing about, and you need to get over that really quick.”

“I’m not saying it’s not brilliant. It’s just… puppets?”

“Yes, puppets.” She tightened some laces enough to remind him to behave. “And it’s going to be great.”

Erik held in a squeak and nodded. Damn this costume. Specifically the lower half. His phone chirped.

_I’ve got the feeds from the rest of the theater all running. Break a leg._

The intern had kept track of the interior rooms and halls of the theater while he’d been away. It had been good to have an extra set of eyes on the place, even if the little black cameras everywhere were disconcerting. When the intern had mentioned maybe editing a bit from the old elevator to add to the full version release later and Erik hadn’t thought of a reason not to.

_It’s your last week, right? How is the project?_

_Yep. They need extra time to clean the dorms before the students return. Project good. Learned a lot. Looking forward to seeing the theater again tho._

That was music to Erik’s ears. They would need all the help they could get to edit and manage the last few weeks of material.

_Looking forward to having you back. Let me know if you need help, I have funds set aside._

_Will do. Break a leg tonight, Death._

Erik set aside the phone and cracked his neck. “Is it time?”

Christine held up Death’s mask. “It’s time.”

…

Revelers scattered as the pounding beat of party music wavered and cut off with a scratch. It was cheesy, but Bach’s Toccata and Fugue crashed through the theater loud enough to shake Erik’s eyeballs as he burst through the shadows and onto the stage. The lights shifted from rainbows and disco sparkles to a sickening, shifting wave. 

He slithered, as best as one could wearing twenty pounds of velvet, felt, gold braid and trim. Erik drew in a deep breath, his first stage performance in more years than he cared to recall.

“Why so silent, my friends? Did you think I had _left_ you?” The articulated jaw of the headpiece had taken some practice and even now, it felt like it rattled the words out of him.

The cast cowered, dressed mostly in their show costumes with an extra piece here and there to cover the bustiers and fishnets. Erik could see them struggling to cover their grins.

“Have you _missed_ me?” Erik purred. “You know I never left.” He drew himself up and arched to puff out the costume’s chest. He certainly did not fill it. “I will not leave until I have you all!” 

A bit of maniacal laughter with the echo turned up. He’d have to thank the AV team, it sounded great.

“Not so fast!” Chistine shouted as she sprang up, dressed like a nurse with massive feathered angel’s wings. They’d bought the scrubs when they couldn’t put together a proper angel costume and decided this worked better anyway and they absolutely didn’t steal the wings from the ballet’s frankly immoderate production of Les Sylphides (they totally did). Christine held out a handful of masks and a spray bottle of vodka they swiped from the costume workbench. 

“We have the power to defeat you, Death!” Christine brandished the masks at him and squirted the bottle at him like he was a naughty cat. “I banish you!”

Erik fought back a snigger and forced it into a strangled cry. “No, No!” He ducked her and ran to the edge of the stage. The other performers drew out masks and held them out, and Erik held up his gloved hands like Nosferatu. 

He leapt up and took to the stairs, then turned dramatically. “You win today, but I will be back! I will always come back!” Erik threw down a smoke bomb and ducked out of the camera angle. Once he was at the back of the darkened theater, he loosened the ties on the headpiece, lifted it off, and quickly slid his other mask back on. His limit on masks was two. 

The cast broke into a cheer and a celebratory song then bowed to Christine, who thanked all the doctors, nurses, and first responders. Erik made sure the lower half of his face was covered and headed into the hall, stopping off briefly to snag two bottles of slightly less cheap champagne, then went to wait backstage for Christine. 

And there it was, the first ridiculous strains. The fact that he didn’t actively hate it after all these years probably said something about him, didn’t it?

_Science fiction, double feature_  
_Doctor X will build a creature._

Christine came dashing up, wings dropping feathers and barely hanging on. 

“The ballet is going to be pissed,” Erik said as he popped a cork. 

Christine took the bottle and drank. “I don’t care.” She lunged at him, scattering a stack of noisemakers and wacky sunglasses. The first wing ripped off when Betty threw the bouquet, leaving a trail of shredded feather bits on the floor of the hallway.

The hallway rail bent when Erik slammed backwards into it, Christine pulling at the ties that held the heavy Red Death costume together. The first arm loosened and she flung the piece to the side then hitched her leg up, balancing on the rail.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” she said between kisses. “Did you feel all that energy out there?”

Their resident Brad was damning Janet with as much chest voice as he’d ever heard out of a semi-trained twenty six year old college dropout. That same dropout had coordinated half of the camera set up and arranged for the theater site where the dance numbers were in exchange for modest payment and credits in the final stream.

“Yes,” Erik sighed against her neck. “I can feel the energy here, too.”

They made it a few more steps before Erik tugged at the heavy brocade on the side of the chest piece of the costume. Christine handed him the open bottle and he drank to victory while she unlaced the side of the shell piece. It dropped on the hallway floor, dusted with feather bits.

His office door was locked and Christine attacked his mouth and neck and was working on the laces of the--

“Christine!”

\-- when he finally fished out the keys and got the door open. She flung the remaining wing into the hallway and they tumbled in, nearly falling to the floor. The ostentatious codpiece was hanging obscenely from a few loose laces, gold brocade swinging jauntily.

Erik tugged it free and flung it godknowswhere. Then he slammed the door shut and locked it. 

There was a light; it shined from the monitors on his desk with a live feed of all the main cameras. The puppet feed was shockingly good and made a convincingly ridiculous forest and castle shot.

“Are you seriously watching that right now?” Christine shoved him toward the futon and lifted off his mask. The cool air of his office was a relief after the full costume, though warmth rose in his cheeks as she kissed him again.

“Looks better,” he said as he pulled off her scrub top, “than I expected.”

She pulled at the ast laces on the costume pants. “Told you.”

The pants made their full exit moments later, followed by the scrubs. It was less about the specific piece being performed, but that something was being performed at all-- that people who were hungry to be on stage were getting that chance again after months of starvation. The voices were more joyous, more pained, and more angelic than they’d ever managed before. They threw themselves into every moment.

The specifics faded into a haze as Christine slid her hands down his chest. He was grateful, so grateful, to live in the same world as her. In this wretched life, this forsaken year, he was grateful she was his companion now, and that he’d found her just in time.

She tugged the last of her clothes off and pressed against him, all fire and blaze.

“Thank you,” he gasped. “Thank you for being here with me. For making this year so good.”

With a throaty breath, she nodded. “I love you, Erik. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

The scrubs were defiled with spilled champagne and the futon may have been defiled by something else. Either way, by the time puppet Janet was learning new tricks, Erik and Christine were sipping champagne and watching the monitors. The dance numbers were a riot, and the crew managed to angle their props to make the online audience feel like they were part of the fun. They even threw glitter, but only at the borrowed movie theater. 

It was two in the morning when they finally left, knowing the next few days would be full of work, but at least it would be slower. They’d banked a few days’s worth of streams and would replay their greatest hits. They held hands as they walked under the dangling fairy lights in the withering garden of the square, the first hint of real cold deepening the fall night.

“I think we’ve got one more container of casserole left.”

“Perfect. That will get me through a two-day coma until I can function again.”

Christine rose up on her toes for a kiss. “There’s karaoke tomorrow night. I’ll wake you in time.”

…

Erik was awakened by his phone. The screen reported a handful of emails and texts. Nothing urgent but the smell of fresh coffee wafting from the kitchen and a lazy evening at home awaited. 

A few minutes before the karaoke show, an email pinged into his inbox. Erik looked up from the keys and tapped the screen of his phone to view it while Christine finalized their planned music list. 

She scrolled through a page and made a few notes. “Anything interesting?”

Erik swallowed. Some news is so large and unexpected you can’t quite manage it. If he had time he might have had an opinion but there was a show and a playlist and Christine was already setting up the camera and what was the first song and oh everyone wanted to hear music from last night’s show.

“Christine, is your lawyer friend logged in?”

“Yes. Why?”

Erik brushed a sheen of sweat from his temple. “I’m forwarding you something. Take a look, then send it to her. I think we need to pay her this time.”

...


	9. Affiliates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The theater's success has not gone unnoticed... the cameras bore witness.

...

What was it about the study of law that made people surround themselves with matching books in forest green and burgundy? If broad generalizations could be made about the theater kids and the AV engineers, then it had to be fair to say that Christine’s lawyer friend probably had her diploma on the wall, just out of the shot. Right next to the unsubtle knicknacks meant to humanize her.

Erik thought about his shelves of mismatched binders, scripts, notebooks and music, blossoming with multicolored pastel sticky notes. Then he thought about the time it was scattered across the office when the futon--

“Now that's settled,” Christine kicked his foot as her lawyer friend continued. “I can tell you that the arrangement they propose is unusual. It’s not unheard of, just sort of new territory. We’ve seen more of it across digital platforms in the past decade, and the last year has brought a spike of new contracts. My firm has helped advise on several of these so, if you like, I can look over other similar contracts and informal agreements and come up with a few ideas?”

Christine was the first to respond. “That sounds great. Erik?”

“I like it.”

The lawyer smiled. “It’s great to see groups working together. Taking a little risk can keep a lot of people in work and that just feels good, you know?” 

It really felt good to help people. It also felt good to create, and if he could do both, then so much the better. Erik’s phone flashed to announce an incoming text.

“It really does,” Christine agreed. “We’ve kept our entire payroll and might expand if we go this direction.”

Erik glanced at his message while Christine rattled off a litany of success. The intern was nearly back and was looking forward to seeing more than two rooms and the inside of his suitcase. He’d find the envelope with a little cash advance when he got to his apartment.

“So if that wraps it up, I think we’ve got a plan.” The lawyer set down her pen and looked at her notes. “Anything else?”

Erik handed his phone to Christine to read the texts. “One more thing. How do we go about setting up a scholarship?”

…

The quiet fall had thinned the crowd at the main street market as the news reported more than two or three topics again. Unfortunately, worsening conditions, in every sense of the term, had once more brought skittish shoppers to the barricade of snow-dusted folding tables, phones out to scan codes.

Christine scrolled through the app and made her picks. The shops had made the wise move to consolidate their menus and shopping lists; staff rotated through the pick-and-deliver job so no one froze running between shops for too long. 

“How do you feel about kale?”

“You know how I feel about kale,” he grimaced. “But if you drown it in bacon I can manage.”

“That’s fair. Extra cheese. I’ve got some old tortillas and I’m thinking of nachos tomorrow.”

“Now you’re talking.” Erik shifted the bag he was carrying when his phone vibrated. “It’s the food bank coordinator.”

“We’ve got a distribution scheduled for next Tuesday. Has something come up?”

His phone pinged again. “Now the head of the historical society is emailing me… what is this, a script?”

Christine’s eyes widened as she peered at the screen. Erik handed it to her and plodded off to pick up butter and eggs.

“Check this out, Erik. They’re proposing an outdoor murder mystery and haunted building tour for those who donate twenty five dollars to the food bank. Once a week,” she stifled a giggle, “you’ll drop ‘clues’ in designated spots along the main street district for participants to find. This sounds like fun!”

Erik pushed on his eyeballs to keep them in place. “As long as I’m not part of the show.” He hiked the bags higher on his shoulder and glared down at a bag of kale. “Let’s finish so I can drown myself in a cup of hot coffee.”

…

Air moves differently in a large space. It’s lazy, heavy, and unhurried; there’s nowhere to go when the lights are on and the tidy rows of seats are empty and folded. 

Erik’s footsteps echoed in the huge space as he paced the boards of the stage, then sat heavily on the edge, dangling his feet. 

Sound is different, too. Without walls or corners, sound can spread, draping that rich atmosphere in voices, the patterings of ballet shoes, or the deep inhale of a cello as the player sets the bow to the strings.

Or a heavy sigh. He missed improv nights around the pit where classical violinists jammed alongside metal guitars or jazz musicians breathed new life into Russian operas. Stranger mashups had happened, and he was delighted he’d witnessed a few of those, too.

Erik slid off the stage and the thud of his two-foot drop reverberated. It wouldn't do to begin the meeting with his navel gazing, so Erik folded back the heavy cover and slid back the fallboard.

As his theater team assembled, scattering themselves far apart in the theater, he played pieces from their shows. When the AV guy came in, he played a few bars from _Rocky Horror_ , their technically challenging, distanced performance that had taken a month just to set the shots and design sets. When the stage manager came in, he played from The Nutcracker, in honor of her mastery of the rapid set changes that made the holidays so grueling. She was currently negotiating an outdoor performance and the floor pieces alone would eat much of the budget. The assistants got pop music and the songs from the beloved sing-a-longs they were now in charge of; Christine was too busy coordinating with the food bank and historical society. She’d even helped put together flyers with budget recipes featuring the market and food bank offerings.

When Christine entered, he played _Over the Rainbow_ because somewhere, over the miserable weather and people, skies were blue. She sat nearby on the stage and smiled tiredly while she held their notes.

Masks may hide smiles but they don’t hide eyes. Not hers, anyway. 

Erik took his hands off the keys and turned to face the house.

“Thanks for making it in today. I know it’s strange for us all to be here, but I can tell you the first shows had fewer people in it than this and no one was wearing masks.” A few polite laughs. Mission accomplished. 

“We’ve broken our strict density policy because we felt this was too important to do online. A few days ago, Christine and I were asked to consider bringing in affiliate theaters.” A few gasps, a blank stare or two. “Christine just sent you all the text of a document that sets out the structure of such an affiliation. We would, in effect, be the creative and administrative leads for three more theaters that are struggling in the current environment. Take a moment to read the document.”

One hand went up. Erik hesitated. He wasn’t exactly taking attendance.

“Yeah?”

An intern from the costume department sat up. “Will you keep playing?”

Erik laughed, then spun back to the keys. “Sure.”

The plainspeech document was three pages long, and in the interest of fair play, Erik played softly to encourage them all to digest what they were taking in. After about ten minutes, he looked up and saw a few heads popping up, and sets of roommates in quiet discussion. A few minutes more and he closed the music off and turned back around.

“So, why are we meeting?” one asked. “This looks pretty well thought out, like a lawyer did it and stuff.”

“A lawyer _did_ do it.”

“Right, so like, why?”

“Why ask my talented, hard working, successful creative team if they’re open to increased workloads, outside influences, new collaborators, and the possibility of failure?”

Heads turned. Conversations were muffled by masks and phones pinged relayed messages. A few must have been sent in the group chat because Erik’s phone started jangling in his pocket. He waved his hands to quiet the group.

Christine stood. “There’s a slight risk that we lose our brand. Our streams and shows have a distinct feel, and there’s a chance that the affiliates, or worse, the donors, won’t embrace it.”

“But,” Erik held up a long bony hand, “they’re asking to affiliate with _us_.”

God, this was a moment, wasn’t it? He hated these moments because they sound good on paper or in movies but the reality was that his back was a little sweaty and he hadn’t read the whole document because he hated paperwork. 

What a useful thing that they thought he was a cryptid.

“They’re in rough shape, but not desperate. They came to us because we did what only a handful of theaters have managed to do: we made this shit show into an opportunity.”

Erik paced the pit, pausing by the control panels. He flicked the wooden handle on the house mains switch to make it spin on its metal mount. 

“They want to know how we made content people are willing to pay for, and have us host it for them. In return, they’ll join in some revenue sharing as they get off the ground. That means we’re splitting the ticket with people who will cause more work than they generate.”

Mumbles. People shifted in their seats. A hand went up.

“That’s a temporary problem, right?”

Erik shrugged. “Relatively. Probably. No guarantees.”

The stage manager tapped her pen against the armrest. “You guys, think about the future. This won’t last forever, and one way or another we’ll need to grow.”

A senior tech leaned forward heavily. “Isn’t it enough to just keep everything running and think about this later?”

The AV guy shrugged. “Maybe, but if we don’t run with this now, someone else will. Those little groups will get chewed up by investors and bye bye, independent theaters.”

The intern nodded. “Can confirm. Donors at the university were talking about acquisitions when I was there.”

Mumbles rose again. Debates sparked across the rows and a thread of desperation started weaving its way into conversations. Erik looked up at Christine.

“If it helps,” Christine piped up, “we’ve set aside three months worth of operating funds. I mean, we’ll have to cut out pizza delivery and Red Bull, but we can make payroll and keep the lights on.”

The rumbles lowered and grew thoughtful.

“I’m in,” said the costumer. “Masquerades are a moneymaker and easy to set up.”

Interns looked at their department heads. The stage manager raised her hand. “We’re in. We can show them how we got creative with shots, set ups, and design.”

The AV guy pressed his forehead with his palm. “I’m going to regret this.” he pulled out a notebook and started jotting down notes. “This guy learned a lot about digital editing at the university and I wrote procedures on how to set up the best software and sites to run smooth shows. That should get the ball rolling on content. Heck, they might be good at music editing, too. Might be a good collaboration there.”

A few other group leaders chimed in, and a few rough numbers and budgets were thrown around. As the company deliberated, Erik edged nearer to Christine and leaned his head on her thigh.

“I can’t decide if I’m excited or terrified,” he said softly.

“How did you feel when you bought the place?” She ran her fingers over his scalp and down the back of his neck. The syrupy air, now suddenly cool and dancing over the tracks her fingers left, provided an electric prompt.

“Same.”

...

In the end, they voted to accept a role as teachers, hosts, and ultimately, a partnership of creative directors to help three other independent theaters scattered in neighboring states. Erik’s insides coiled and rolled as they returned to their office to pack up and head home. They paused on the stairs to kiss, and again in the hallway outside the office. While Christine opened the door, Erik looked up and saw that a nearby camera, one of more than he cared to count scattered in the theater, had a feather wedged near the mount. He reached up and flicked it away, then grabbed his things and locked up.

It was a few hours later, after texts and emails with the lawyer, after a dinner of kale made tolerable by sausage, a shower that warmed and softened his aching shoulders and a little smile that had them hurrying down the hall, that Erik made the connection.

“That little--” He started to lean up.

Christine tightened her grip on his hips. “What?” When she pulled him back down, he went willingly, but was off his rhythm nonetheless.

“I can’t believe--” she cut him off with a kiss and a twist of her hips that slackened his jaw.

The arch of her back left a gap against the mattress just big enough for his hand to slip beneath, then he pressed down. Gravity may order the universe but Christine’s sighs, tuneful and polished, was the center of his world. She leaned her lips next to his ear and whispered. 

“You have ten seconds, then I’m going to get grumpy.”

Erik gasped at what she did next, barely squeezing out the words. “I have a bad feeling about that codpiece.”

...


	10. Darling Buds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New additions to the company bring new material to organize, and the intern and AV guy have certainly been busy. Erik and Christine contemplate the weather...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is safe and well. Worst winter storm in 100 years is bearing down on me right now, because 2021 looked at 2020 and said 'hold my beer'. 
> 
> Maybe 2 chapters to go? :)

Late winter weather was unpredictable to the point of cliché. It might be tolerable if, during the endless meetings and warbling internet rehearsals, their slightly colder-climate affiliates weren't framed by delightful picture frame windows of thick, fluffy snowflakes and winter-soft daylight. 

No, it was a touch warmer and wetter here. Those fat flakes turned to thundersnow, or furious cold rain. If the winds shifted just right they’d get a bomb of arctic air, slashing with frigid winds that glazed everything in a sheet of clear ice. It could easily shut the city down for a day or two as it knocked out power and paralyzed the roads.

Christine called them soup days.

Erik called them words he couldn’t say in a live stream and grumbled about roof damage at the theater.

“Just sit, Erik,” she said, and stirred a pot of lentils and sausage. The last of the kale was finally wilting into the broth and turned the pot decidedly swampy. “It’s wretched out there and there’s no way you’d be able to get on the roof anyway. Besides, you promised.”

“If there’s just one leak under all that weight, the rigging--”

“Erik…”

“Fine. No stupid risks.” 

…

The AV guy had a third screen. You could tell because his head occasionally swiveled to a new position.

“And it looks like there’s a strong folk music group at the third affiliate. They got in on the sea shanty frenzy early and have a nice viewership every Wednesday night.”

The meetings were information dense. One theater at a time sent their compiled lists of assets and each piece had to get dealt with. The AV guy was in charge of content and streaming opportunities. The intern edited and created ‘shows’ for clickable content. The costumers themed the online parties, and the stage manager handled major show development with her team.

Erik was in charge of making sense of it all. “Sing along?”

“Yep. They’ve recorded the last two months of shows but nothing’s posted because their tech people had kids.”

Erik looked up. “Not sure I follow.”

“Their AV is a husband and wife team. They had twins three months ago.”

“Morbid.” He was about to move on to the next topic, but stopped. “Does that group have any assistance programs yet?”

“Not yet.”

“One sec.” Erik pulled out his phone and texted Christine and the lawyer. “Alright. Where are we on show creation?”

The AV guy swiveled. “My intern has a new one every few days. That guy is all over the place but he’s productive. He even made a two minute blooper reel and made a point to mention that he’s got plenty more where that came from.”

“Bloopers? What bloopers?”

“Rehearsals, set accidents, the puppet guy screwing around, people walking into walls when the lights are out, you know. The camera feeds are motion activated so he doesn’t miss anything.”

Erik swallowed, recalling the feather jammed into the camera housing outside his office. “Has he shared any of it?”

The AV guy shook his head. “It’s on the servers he set up and I figure that’s his project. What do you think about making the blooper stuff into premium content?”

“Great,” Erik said quickly, desperate to think about something else. “Sounds good. How’s the music editing coming?”

The AV guy lit up like a bulb. “One of the new groups made an account for me in their music editing program! I’m building it in layers now and I’ve got so much more control than that system I was using. I was reading about some about the separation of music theory from composition and the--”

On any other day, Erik would have been delighted to hear any of his staff give serious thought to composition, but he had four more meetings in as many hours and a full winter to spring transition to plan. It wasn’t just a stage to plan for, it was the unblinking eye of the entire damn internet with unlimited venues and an insatiable appetite for new content. Erik himself had been reduced to using a ring-bound calendar from the pest control company just to deal with it all. 

No wonder every blog turned to crap in a year.

“--And so I’m layering a mixolydian interchange into the progression to add some tension and release to the refrain, which will be much more satisfying once I add the flute trills. What do you think?”

“Trust your ear and your… instincts.” Erik was saved by a text from Christine. “How fast can you and your intern get a blooper reel up on the premium stacks? We’re gonna need an income boost as soon as possible.”

The AV guy glanced over the screens and looked back. “We can have it up tonight. Why?”

“Well, we’ve got twins.” Erik flipped his calendar closed and pinned the AV guy with a stare. “As for your music editing, watch out for those modes. Don’t mismatch the layers and harmony or those flute trills will sound like nails on a chalkboard.”

...

A break in the weather meant the city could come back to life. The sunrise stripped ice off the trees and the fairy lights in the muddy garden below the balcony glowed brighter as they dripped free of meltwater. 

It also meant a trip to the theater to check on things, so Erik and Christine slid on neglected shoes and packed up their bags. 

They arrived too quickly, and started an inspection of the theater. The rigging was fine, and nothing on the stage was wet from what they could see. The restoration team had done a good job sealing the old girl without stripping her to the studs. Erik moved to the offices while Christine went down to the workshop. 

He moved slowly, looking up at every camera with suspicion.

What had he done here? Had he lifted his mask, or adjusted his crotch in view of one of those bastards? It was a given that he’d sworn and thrown things, so that was beyond help. As was the fact that the one outside his office had probably seen more dangling in the hallway than a broken costume wing.

Erik fixed his eyes again on the ceiling joints and corners. Petty. These thoughts were petty and small. If his crotch needed attention then he was only human. People needed food and shelter and diapers and clothes for new people. They didn’t need him embarrassed over nothings. He turned corners, looking for dark, saggy spots and found it thankfully dry. No damp along the ceiling and floorboards in the breakroom either. In the cabinet, there were still mugs and cups and bowls. All the food had been tossed months ago. A few sodas, a random beer of dubious origin, and three bottles of cheap champagne remained. 

“There’s no water down in the basement or the pit, so that’s good news,” Christine reported as she joined him in the break room. 

“None in the offices. Outer walls looked okay and the bathrooms are, remarkably, in good shape.” Erik sat at the far corner table and set his mask aside, then cradled his face. Such a near miss. One strategic leak could mean tens of thousands lost despite the preservation and protection clauses built into the insurance. It would wipe out his emergency cash.

Squeaking hinge. A rustle. Christine breathing.

Even a minor loss would wipe out the funds they’d reserved so carefully for the employees and the new affiliates.

The twins. Patterns danced in Erik’s brain as he pressed against his eyeballs. _Dear god, they had twins now._

A sharp pop made Erik jump, half blind and groping as his foggy vision tried to clear. Christine giggled and slurped the foam rising from the top of an obnoxious green bottle. 

“What are you… okay, hand it over.” Erik held out his hand and took a long pull, letting the foam die down painfully before he swallowed. “God, that’s not very good.”

“It’s not great, no.” Christine agreed before taking the bottle back for another drink. “But there’s no damage and that’s worth celebrating.” She paused for a mouthful. A drop escaped the corner of her mouth and tracked a bubbly path to her chin and slipped to her collarbone. She exhaled and wiped her neck. A faint smear remained.

Intriguing, how a little drop could capture the attention. 

Erik held out his hand. “You feel like celebrating?”

Rather than just hand him the bottle, she delivered it and herself. A terrifically efficient move. 

“Well, our amazing team just quadrupled in size, we’ve got new content to play with, access to more servers and bandwidth, and we just took a record breaking storm that would have broken us a year ago.” She nudged at his lanky knees and stepped close. “Yeah. I feel like we deserve to celebrate.”

The smear dried to a shiny stripe. Christine’s eyes were warm and wide, so Erik leaned forward and buried his face in her neck. “That’s delicious,” he purred, trailing kisses along the dried trail. She started to draw back, holding his hands so he’d follow, but he resisted. 

They’d gotten creative there once before. It had been after a dull show made interesting only by the addition of a backstage drinking game involving stagehand grog and the repeated misplacing of props. It was best not to find out what went into the grog, but he did learn that the break room counters were not only sturdy but mounted at a particularly convenient height. 

At his hesitation, Christine’s brow wrinkled for a moment, then she followed his gaze to the little black camera in the corner pointed at the center of the room. One move and they’d be in view.

With a flick of the wrist to settle his mask, he followed Christine into the hallway to retrieve their things and seek out more suitable locations. A camera, discreetly mounted to keep vigil on a doorway and hall, got an eyeful as Erik glared and gave it a gesture indiscreet in no less than seven languages.

The cheap champagne made an excellent travelling partner as they made their way home, picking their way around splattered debris and slush. They slipped between buildings to sneak mouthfuls like it was more illicit than all the times Erik had sipped his cocktails on his way back from the market. The giant green bottle certainly made it less discreet.

The fresh air was nice. The sky was clearing. Signs of life were springing back here and there on the walk to the main street. Subtle, like the soft, thickened ends of branchlets where the new leaves would sprout. Erik ran his palm over a long manicured hedge and felt the life pulsing within, like an orchestra ready to spring at the baton. People with nowhere to go were out walking because they hadn’t in three days and the outside air smelled like sun on cold water. 

This contemplative mood stayed with Erik as they climbed the stairs and came to their door. His door, now theirs. Winter and the common threats were loosening their grip from the world around them, and the whole world seemed prepared to spring out in bloom. Even the neglected little patch of landscaping had been worked up while they were out, preparing the token bit of greenspace to brighten the concrete courtyard.

Tender energy thrummed as they closed the door behind them. They left his mask on the counter, alongside the dregs of the bottle on the counter and retreated to the bedroom where a space heater had managed to keep the room warm enough to peel away their layers. Flowers would bloom soon enough under the fairy lights, but enough pink blossomed in their room to tide them over. Birds, too, would sing, but Erik found the sound of Christine’s breathy trills more thrilling than wrens and warblers. Sunshine would grow warm, but when Christine breathed over him, it was hotter than any burn. She left him loose and content, not prickling and tense.

“I think we messed up,” Christine said as she pulled the blanket over their cooling skin.

Erik threw an arm over his head and worked to catch his breath. “Why? I thought that was inspired.”

She rolled over and snuggled into his side. Her hair had loosened from the army of clips and pins and floated into a bouncy mist. “No, I meant the champagne. It’s only noon.”

“Your point being?”

She rose up on an elbow. “You’re supposed to have mimosas with brunch, not straight bubbly before. I feel like a lush.”

Erik smirked and rolled, nudging her shoulder back until she was flat again. Ah, pink blooms in winter. “You’re a long way from being a lush but,” he dipped his head and planted lingering kisses, “but you certainly are _luscious_.”

“Erik,” she said, burying her fingers in his hair.

“Mmm?” He knew better than to talk with his mouth full.

“Brunch.”

“Not hungry.” Not for French toast, anyway. Erik ventured south. “Ten minutes.”

A heavenly sound escaped her roughened voice. “Deal, but you’re making me an omelet.”

...

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I wanted to work on other works in progress, this was the only universe I could find any traction in. As usual, these are the idiots I love the most.


End file.
